


The Winds that Awaken the Stars

by Gefionne



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Non-canon Dwarven and Elven customs, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel, the young captain of the guard of the Greenwood, has spent all her life within the borders of the great forest, bound in honor to serve the Elvenking after her parents are killed. For 600 years she is content to be Thranduil's ward and friend of Prince Legolas, but when evil darkens her homeland, she desires--against the king's command--to look to the world beyond the trees for a way to banish it. When she takes twelve Dwarves and a Hobbit as prisoners and learns of their quest to rid Erebor of the dragon Smaug, she must make a choice: obey her king and allow them to fail in their quest or give up all she holds dear and join them in hope that the death of the dragon will bring an age of prosperity for her people and the home to which she can never return.</p><p>An AU take on Kíli x Tauriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nookienostradamus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/gifts).



_The winds that awakened the stars_  
_Are blowing through my blood._  
_O how could I be so calm_  
_When she rose up to depart?_  
_Now words that called up the lightning  
_ _Are hurtling through my heart._

 - William Butler Yeats, “The Maid Quiet”

* * *

 As she peeled the tattered linen from the wound, bright blood poured over her fingers, warm in the crisp air of late autumn. From the leather satchel at her hip she drew a clean dressing and pressed it against the shoulder of her wounded companion. His nostrils flared as he drew a sharp breath, but he made no noises of pain.

“Ingwion,” she said turning to the guardsman nearest her, “bring leaves of yarrow.”

His eyes widened. “Forgive me, _nikerym_. I cannot recall. Yarrow has a small white flower and—”

“Have you learned nothing from my lessons?” she snapped, frowning over her shoulder at him.

He lowered his head, saying nothing.

“Come then,” she said, “and hold tight here, just as I am. I will do what you cannot.”

The wounded guardsman smirked up at her. “You will leave me in the care of one who is incapable of recalling even the simplest of herbs, Tauriel?”

“Be still, Legolas,” she said, smiling, “and you will come to no harm.”

As Ingwion approached, Tauriel arranged his hands, ensuring he could stanch the bleeding. The yarrow would stop it and a mixture of water and powered willow bark would numb the pain until they could clean and dress the wound properly.

“Be swift, _mellon_ ,” said Legolas as Tauriel rose. “I feel a gray haze descending over me. I can…smell the sea.”

He teased her, as she well knew. The wound was not grave. It was painful and bled, but it would heal cleanly and the prince of the Greenwood would have another scar to boast.

Ingwion, the youngest of their company, knew little of healing, and from the fearful look he turned upon Tauriel at Legolas’ words, she could see that he believed his prince was nearing his death.

Unsure if she could reply without laughter, Tauriel simply nodded to them and ran into the trees to the east.

Once beyond the sight of the party, she slowed, chuckling. It was short journey to the place where the guards’ latest kills lay, but Tauriel was unable to resist prolonging Ingwion’s suffering for a few moments longer, even if at Legolas’ expense. It was a cruel trick, but perhaps it would teach young Ingwion to listen when she instructed him.

“A warrior of the Eldar must know the herbs that can dull pain, draw poison, and heal even the gravest of wounds,” she had told him, as her tutor had taught her. “Healing is a weapon, just as is your sword or bow. It is the last defense. You must know how to take a life, yes, but also how to preserve one.”

Tauriel could almost forgive Ingwion his disinterest. His youth demanded that he make his name among their people, and little glory lay in the mending of wounds. Much more was to be gained by inflicting them.

There had been little chance for battle before the darkness descended upon the Greenwood. For centuries King Thranduíl’s people had known only peace beneath the boughs the ancient trees.

To touch their thick bark now was to feel the sickness in them. What was green had all but disappeared, replaced by dying leaves and the shadow of perpetual twilight. Few creatures remained, leaving the forest silent and still as a tomb.

And then the spiders had arrived. Spawning near the ruined fortress of Dol Guldur, they twisted their silk throughout the wood, suffocating the trees. An ill fetor permeated the air wherever they ventured.

Tauriel had heard that the Men of the Lake had taken to calling the forest Mirkwood.

 _It is a fitting name_ , thought she as she stepped over the fallen form of one of the great spiders. Perhaps this was the one that had slashed at Prince Legolas, tearing through his clothes and into his flesh. Or perhaps it was one of the many others they had slain that day.

Once the spiders had come to the forest, the king had charged Tauriel and the guard she captained to rid their lands of the monstrous creatures. Two patrols prowled during the daylight, each returning with more and more kills as the seasons passed. After sunset, the gates of Thranduíl’s house were closed, three guards posted at each until morning. There was yet to be an attack after dark, but Tauriel was certain it would not be long. The spiders were growing bolder and more numerous.

A patch of green just beyond a severed spider’s leg caught her eye. Drawing one of her daggers, she sliced a few feathery leaves from the plants in the loose soil. Whispering her thanks, she tucked the leaves away in her satchel and sprinted back to join her companions.

“Blessed Valar!” Ingwion said when she arrived. “He’s fading, Tauriel!”

Gesturing him away, she knelt beside Legolas. He was groaning as if in great pain, his right arm clutching at his breast. As Tauriel removed the blood-soaked dressing, though, he winked.

From behind her, Tauriel could hear the five other guards holding back laughter as they assured Ingwion that all would be well.

Shaking her head, Tauriel began crushing the yarrow fronds. In the common tongue, which Ingwion had not yet mastered, she said, “If you truly wish to frighten him, Legolas, feign death and let my medicine bring you back from it.”

“I am not so cruel as that,” he said, through clenched teeth.

“And when will you end this farce?” Tauriel asked, arranging the crushed fronds on his shoulder. Taking a small vial from her satchel, she poured some of the powder into her hand. Mixing it with water from the flask Legolas carried, she applied it to the wound.

“When it suits me,” he replied. “Ah, but that does feel better.”

He made to sit up, but Tauriel pushed him back against the forest floor. “Not until I bind it.”

Her practiced hands made quick work of the binding and soon she was pulling Legolas to his feet. He gave her a quick smile before feigning a spell of dizziness. Hugging Tauriel’s shoulder for balance, he gave a squeeze of sincere thanks. She crooked a brow, the corners of her mouth turning up. The prince was incorrigible at times, but he never neglected to give gratitude where it was due.

“Are you well, my lord?” asked Ingwion, his eyes wide. “Can you walk?”

“I am fine,” Legolas replied, turning a stern look upon the young guardsman. “ _Now_. Lady Tauriel has saved my life more than once with her gifts.”

 _Not an untruth_ , she thought, _though with blades and bow rather than herbs._ It was not often he took a wound.

“And you will do well,” Legolas continued, “to mind her lessons. I am understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Ingwion, his fair skin flushed with shame.

“Lead the way home, then,” Tauriel said. “Slowly, for the sake of our wounded prince.”

Legolas gave her a sidelong look, but continued to lean against her. He said, in Westron, “If you think you are punishing me, my friend, you are mistaken.”

“I am only lending credence to your terrible injury,” she replied, taking up an easy pace. “And my company is never a punishment. You should be honored.”

She expected a quip in return, but instead found Legolas looking at her, his expression serious. “I am.”

Tauriel felt a familiar uneasiness in her gut. Legolas had begun to look differently at her of late. Upon every occasion she had wished only to melt away into the forest and be free of his gaze. Her affection and admiration for him were immeasurable, but he was her brother in arms and her liege lord. She loved him as such and not beyond.

Looking away, she said, “Thank you for what you said to Ingwion. He will learn…in time.”

“He had best do it soon. The number of spiders grows every day. This wound is not the first one your guard has suffered and it will not be last.”

“If only your father would allow us to take the fight to Dol Guldur,” said Tauriel, frowning. “We could burn their eggs and rid ourselves of them for good.”

“Your intentions are noble,” Legolas sighed, “but my father’s will is immutable as steel.”

“It is a shame, then, that there are no more Dwarven smiths under the Mountain,” Tauriel said, “for _they_ can bend steel.”

Legolas laughed, though there was sharp edge to it. “Do not speak to my father of Dwarves. He—”

“Bears a great dislike for the line of Durin,” Tauriel finished, smiling. “I know. You’ve said it more times than I care to remember.”

Legolas grinned. “I have spent centuries at my father’s side, Tauriel, and you have been a friend to me for the brief six hundred years of your life. Yet, you know me better than my own kin.”

“You have been my friend for so long a time,” she said, “that you are my kin.”

His brows knit, but before he could speak, the sound of snapping branches and the cries of battle reached their ears. He sprang away from Tauriel, and both turned toward the noise.

 “It cannot be the second patrol,” she said. “Not so early.”

“Too many voices,” said Legolas. “And too loud. Someone trespasses in my father’s kingdom.” Disregarding his wound, he lifted his bow over his head and nocked an arrow. “Come on!”

“Guard of the Greenwood,” Tauriel called, drawing her own weapons, “to me!”

Charging after Legolas, she took hold of a low branch and swung up into the trees. Springing from bough to bough, it was not long before she saw the shadowy expanse of a spider descending by a single length of silk. Taking aim, she fired a bolt, severing the silk and sending the spider to its death below.

“Watch out!” called a deep voice in Westron. The crash of the spider’s corpse and a few cries of surprise followed.

Peering down, Tauriel’s eyes grew wide. Having spent all her life in Mirkwood, where travel beyond the borders was forbidden, she had seen only her own people and the Men with whom they traded. Yet here was a company of Dwarves fighting with ferocity and, if she was not mistaken, joy.

Some wielded axes nearly as tall as they themselves. Others held swords. One of them was so small that he carried a weapon that would have been but a long knife in an Elf’s hands. 

“Get down, Fíli!” one dark-haired Dwarf yelled as he drew back the string of a stout bow.

Another, yellow of hair and beard, dropped to his chest into the dirt, allowing the bolt his companion fired to strike home in the maw of a spider. The creature hissed and spat, but did not fall.

The Dwarf  Fíli sprang agilely to his feet. “You’ll not take this kill from me, brother!” he said and struck a tremendous blow to the head of the spider. Screeching, it lurched to the side and fell dead. Laughing, the Dwarf ran to aid his brethren.

The guardsmen began to appear then, entering the fray alongside Legolas. Their battle fury was a sight to behold, each warrior moving fluidly around their foes, coming close only to deal the final blow. Tauriel was prepared to join them, but her eyes were drawn again to the dark-haired Dwarven archer.

Firing arrow after arrow, he struggled to keep pace with the spiders pouring from the trees. So focused was he that he did not see the massive, black creature stalking him.

Tauriel aimed and fired, but her arrow went astray, grazing the spider. She watched as the Dwarven archer was knocked to the ground, his bow snapping with a sickening _crack_ as it buckled beneath his weight. She could hear the clackingof the spider’s jaws as it hovered above him, prepared to strike.

With a cry, she sprang down from the trees, stabbing through the eye of one spider with an arrow before she fired it at another. Tucking into a roll as she landed on the forest floor, she drew the twin blades from her back and dispatched the spider that held the Dwarf.

“Throw me a dagger!” he called once he gotten to his feet . “Quick!”

Though she knew another spider approached him, she replied, “If you think I’m giving you a weapon, Dwarf, you are mistaken.” Ending the life of the spider she faced with a slash beneath its head, she turned and threw the blade into the pate of the other.

With a sputtering hiss, it fell in a heap at the Dwarf’s feet, a thick pool of saliva and blood sliding toward his boots. He took a step back. Feeling the sharp prick of Tauriel’s arrow at the back of his neck, though, he froze.

“Take another step,” she said, “and you’ll meet the same fate as this monster.”

“May I at least turn,” he said, “and look upon the face of my rescuer?”

Tauriel appraised him. The top of his head came just to her breastbone, giving her the advantage of height. But he was broad of shoulder and his arms were powerful from drawing a bow. She was quicker, though, and he unarmed.

“Slowly,” she said. “And raise your hands.”

“Slow, aye,” he said, lifting his arms and haltingly coming around to face her.

She drew tight her bowstring as a warning.

He saw, but did not flinch.

Long, disorderly hair fell around his face, which was, to Tauriel’s surprise, covered only with a dark dusting of beard. His nose was narrow and straight. The eyes that regarded her were brown.

Bending from the waist, he brought his chin against the point of her arrow. “Lady Elf, you have saved my life. I am in your debt.”

“I am taking you prisoner,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “Consider your debt paid.”

“I am not released so easily,” he replied, a corner of his mouth turning up.

Tauriel nearly returned the smile, amused by his cheekiness, but she kept her countenance unmoved. “Come this way,” she said, inclining her head back toward the rest of her guardsmen.

“As you wish, Lady Elf,” the Dwarf replied as he took a few steps ahead.

When they arrived, the guardsmen still had their bows trained upon the bedraggled company. Legolas stood across from the one who must have lead them, a stern Dwarf with a thick beard and a poison look.

“What now, Elf?” he demanded, advancing.

“Do not think I won’t kill you, Dwarf,” said Legolas in Westron, pulling his bowstring tight. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Easy, _mellon_ ,” said Tauriel in Sindarin. “We must take these prisoners to your father. Undoubtedly he will want know their business here.”

“What is that Elven witch saying?” demanded one of the Dwarves, his bald head covered in tattoos.

She turned a cold look upon him. “Only that you are trespassers in the lands of King Thranduíl and now you are at his mercy.”

“Thranduíl?” asked the smallest of their company—beardless and barely tall enough to reach Tauriel’s elbow—looking to the others. “Is that not the trai—”

“Quiet, Bilbo!” snapped a Dwarf with a beard white as snow.

“Bring us to the king, then,” said the stern Dwarf to Legolas, “and we shall see if there is any honor among the Elves of Mirkwood.”

Legolas reached for his dagger. “Mind your tongue!”

“Enough,” said Tauriel. “Search them. Take their weapons, bind their hands, and blindfold them.”

The guardsmen were none too gentle as they rifled through the surcoats of the Dwarves, unburdening them of blades and axes. Some tore lengths of cloth from the Dwarves’ own clothing to tie around their eyes. Tauriel did not care for it, but it could not be helped just then.

“Edrahil, Fingon,” she called. “Bear these weapons back with you.”

The twin brothers nodded their assent.

As Tauriel passed by the archer, he called, “Are you not going to search me, Lady Elf? After all, I could have anything down my trousers.”

She stopped, lifting a brow. “Or nothing, Master Dwarf.”

He smiled one-sidedly. “Then is it my coat you will tear to blind me or your own?”

Reaching into her satchel, she produced a length of rolled bandage. “Neither.”

The archer’s face fell.

Tauriel bit back laughter as she wound the bandage around his head.

“You bind a man tightly,” he said as she finished.

“I have healed enough fools who would loosen their dressings to know how best to cinch a knot.”

He said something more, but Tauriel’s attention had turned to Legolas.

Pulling an elegantly tooled portrait case from the coat of a red-bearded Dwarf, the prince asked, “Who is this? Your brother?”

Bristling, the Dwarf barked, “That is my _wife_!”

“And what is this horrid creature?” Legolas continued, his face screwed up with displeasure. “A goblin mutant.”

“That’s my wee lad, Gimli.”

Raising a brow, Legolas snapped the case closed. “Perhaps I shall keep this to show our own children just how hideous—”

Astounded to hear such cruelty from the lips of her friend, Tauriel called for him.

Dropping the portrait case back into the Dwarf’s hand, he made his way over to her.

Having only wanted to draw him away, she sought for what to say. “It will…take some time…to journey with thirteen, no! fourteen bound Dwarves. But…we must alert the king as quickly as possible. Will you not run ahead and tell him of our coming? He would wish to hear it from you.”

Legolas frowned, but assented. “I will look for you by the setting sun.”

Tauriel watched as he disappeared into the forest. Ignoring the protests of the Dwarves, she ordered the guardsmen to move them out.

 <<< >>>

The light had all but gone from the forest by the time they arrived at the western gate of the king’s house. Neither the Elves of the guard nor their dwarven prisoners had spoken as they walked, save for an occasional curse when a Dwarf stumbled in his blindness.

As the gate opened, a full complement of armored warriors marched out to greet them. In the white silk of the royal house, Legolas came behind.

“By order of the king,” he said, “Tauriel, captain of the guard, is to see the prisoners to the dungeons. All save one.” He pointed to the first soul in the column, the stern Dwarf. “He is to come to with me.”

“Remove the blindfolds,” said Tauriel to the guardsman.

The Dwarves blinked and stretched their faces as their eyes became accustomed to the swiftly failing light.

“Take the rest,” said Legolas to Tauriel. “This one goes before my father.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “We are bound by honor to treat prisoners with dignity. I trust you will remember that.”

He gave a curt nod before turning to his charge. “Come along, Dwarf,” he said, pushing him by the shoulder.

A flurry of protests erupted among the company: “Where are you taking him?” “What are you doing, Elf? Speak up!” “You’ll not harm him or you’ll taste the keen edge of my axe!”

“He goes before King Thranduíl,” said Tauriel in the common tongue. “But he will join you again. In the meantime, I ask that you follow me.”

“Where do you take us, she-Elf?” asked the yellow-haired Dwarf she recognized from the battle.

She could hear fear beneath the hostility in his voice. “You are called Fíli, are you not?”

If he was surprised, he did not show it. “I am.”

“Tauriel is my name, and no harm will come to any in your company while you are in my charge.” Gesturing inside, she said, “Please, come.”

Though a number of them still regarded her with suspicion as they passed, the archer flashed her a smile and the old Dwarf of the snowy beard inclined his head.

The dungeons lay two hundred narrow steps below the Great House of Mirkwood. The cells were carved deep into the stone of the caverns, their doors barred with black iron. When Tauriel and the Dwarves arrived, Beleg, the keeper of the keys, was waiting.

“I have opened thirteen of our finest,” he said, his smile sharp and wicked. “Shall I see them to their lodgings?”

Making no attempt to hide her distaste, Tauriel said, “No. My guard will take them. You may follow to lock the gates.”

“Very well, _nikerym_ ,” he replied, making a mocking bow.

Turning her back to him, Tauriel made her way down. The first cell remained closed, but the ones beyond it stood open.

“Cut their bonds,” she said to her guardsmen. “And search them once more.”

Prisoners were to be treated well enough, but never to be trusted. _Not even the archer with the clever tongue and handsome eyes_. She nearly laughed aloud at her own folly. Handsome, were they? No, but they were different. Her people had only eyes of green or blue. His were dark. Perhaps it was that that struck her so.

“Are you sure you don’t care to search me, Lady Elf?”

Tauriel glanced down to see the archer, the last of the Dwarves to be free, looking up at her.

“I think not, Master Dwarf.” Drawing a knife from her boot, she cut the rope at his wrists.

“More’s the pity,” he said, going into his cell.

Closing the barred gate behind him, Tauriel said, “Rest well,” and left Beleg to his work.

 <<< >>>

The guard room was empty when she arrived. A fire still burned in the hearth, but the other guardsmen had gone, having cleaned their weapons and hung them.

Divesting herself of the blades she carried and her bow and quiver, Tauriel took the oil cloths and whetstone out into the night. The balcony was shaded by the towering trees, but when the wind blew, from time to time, she could see the bright moon or the stars beyond. They gave her a sense of peace she knew not elsewhere.

She was not yet finished cleaning her daggers when she heard quiet footfalls from behind her. “How went the audience?” she asked.

“Well enough,” Legolas replied, crossing the balcony to stand against its edge.  “My father was…civil.”

Tauriel was happy for the darkness. It hid her frown. “I am glad to hear it,” she managed to say. “And the Dwarf?”

“He was less so.”

“He seems an ornery sort.”

Legolas’ laugh was cold. “That does not begin to describe him.”

“And what of their purpose here?”

“Traveling through on the way to points east.”

Tauriel could hear that he was not telling her all, but she chose not to press him. “And will they be permitted to continue their journey?”

“Father wishes to wait until after _Mereth en Gillith_ to release them.”

“That is three days hence!” Tauriel exclaimed. “What reason has he to hold them?”

Legolas turned to her. “It is the will of the king. Is there another reason that need be given?”

Tauriel sighed in resignation, closing her eyes. For all her life she had been unflaggingly loyal to Thranduíl, but since the day he had refused to go to the aid of the Dwarves of Erebor as the dragon Smaug destroyed their home, she had been given reason to doubt him.

Thrór had tarnished his pride by refusing him the crystal white gems from the Mountain, and in his vanity he had never forgiven the Dwarf king. Now he kept his people as prisoners in their own forest, unwilling to look beyond the borders of his kingdom.

“I remember,” Legolas said, “as a child at the Feast of Starlight, both Father and my mother would ride out into the wide meadows beyond the borders of the Greenwood, leading our people to where the stars were clear. The moon was dark, but the light of the heavens still shone upon the crystal surface of Esgaroth and proud peak of Erebor. There was music and dancing. The children would play games throughout the night, picking out shapes in the sky.

“But as I grew and my mother chose to go into the West, Father no longer saw fit to go there, staying instead in his halls, eating and drinking wine until sleep claimed him. By the day the dragon came, the young ones could no longer remember the celebrations beneath the stars. And you, Tauriel, I am sure, had never even heard stories of them before this night.”

His voice, so sorrowful, shamed her. She rose and went to him. “Forgive me for my impatience with the king’s word. As you say, I am young yet and know little of this immortal life.”

Legolas touched her cheek. “Youth is a gift, _mellon nin_. My father’s youth and joy went away with my mother. It is for that reason that I have feared so profound a bond. Yet, the friendship you have shown me brings hope to my heart.”

“And I will always be a friend to you,” said Tauriel, reaching up and drawing his hand down, “whatever may come.”

They were silent for a moment before she let his hand slip out of her grasp.

“Your shoulder!” she exclaimed, remembering all at once. “I have not—”

“Eldalótë cleaned and dressed it. Her work will do until the morrow. I bid you goodnight, Tauriel.”

“Goodnight to you, Legolas.”

She did not linger long after he had gone. Taking a torch from the sconce in the guard room, she made her way to her own chamber. It was sparse, furnished with little more than a bed, a simple wardrobe, and hearth. She did not require much more than that. A child of just over one hundred years when her mother and father had perished, Tauriel had been apprenticed to the Healer of the House and given a novice’s place among the guard of the wood. In both roles she had learned to keep only the things she deemed essential. Fine gowns and diadems meant far less to her than a sturdy pair of boots, a sharp knife, and a taut bow.

Lighting a fire in the hearth, she hung her weapons in their places near the door and undressed. Sliding beneath the fur coverlet on her bed, she settled down to rest through the night. As warmth spread through her, she could not help but think of the Dwarven archer in the chill of a dungeon cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to the magnificent nookienostradamus, the sister who insists I don't neglect my fic!
> 
> Just a couple of things:
> 
> 1) All the tertiary Elven characters' names are taken from Tolkien (mostly the Silmarillion) because I am genuinely terrible at coming up with names that sound remotely believable.
> 
> 2) Mostly "happy" endings. Not everybody can survive, but with a little Elven medicine, a few more certainly can!
> 
> 3) There will be sex. Because hot Dwarves.
> 
> I'll try to post fairly regularly, but because real life is stupid, some updates may be slow in coming. Cheers! - Gef


	2. Chapter 2

“‘Rest well?’ Ha! There is little chance of that with damp stone for your pillow.”

Kíli, son of Dís and sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield, glared up at the Elf who mocked him. He looked much the same as any other of their kind, long of limb and hair, fair of skin. But there was a cruel satisfaction in his eyes as he slid a sizable iron key into the lock of the cell door and turned it with a deep _thud_.

“Do not bother to call for food or drink, Dwarf filth,” said the keeper of the keys. “You will be given none this night.”

“Even if it were offered,” spat Kíli, “I would take nothing from your hands.”

Tapping the large ring of keys against the bars of the cell door, the Elf smirked. “Then starve. It makes no matter to me.”

Kíli watched the keys as they swung with each tap, memorizing the shape of one that would free him.

“‘Rest well,’” the Elf laughed as he turned away.

Kíli was glad to see the back of him. With a sigh, he leaned against the stone of his cell, his eyes closing. What a mess their company found themselves in. It was less than a fortnight until Durin’s Day, and if they could not reach the hidden door on Gandalf’s map by the last light of autumn, their quest was for naught.

The Elves of Mirkwood were a different sort than those they had met in Rivendell. There the Company had been welcomed as guests, albeit cautiously. Here they were insulted, robbed, and imprisoned.

Thorin had been taken from them and to what end, Kíli knew not. His uncle had been a father to him since his own was slain, and on this quest it was Kíli’s duty to guard and protect him. Locked in a cell, he could not honor that oath.

The words of the Elf maid Tauriel came to his mind: “No harm will come to any in your company while you are in my charge.” He needed to believe, for Thorin’s sake, that what she said was true.

“Kíli. Is that you?” said a small voice, seemingly from nowhere. “Can you hear me?”

“Bilbo?” Kíli replied, going once more to the front of his cell.

“Yes!” said the Hobbit. “I heard voices. Thought I recognized yours.”

“I can hear you,” Kíli said, “but I cannot see you.”

“Nor I you,” said Bilbo. “I am in the cell adjacent, and I am glad to hear a friend’s voice.” A pause. “This is a right muddle, isn’t it?”

“Aye.”

“And I suppose we cannot expect Gandalf to appear and talk some sense into these Elves this time. We shall just have to find a way out of it ourselves.”

Kíli could not help but smile at the Hobbit’s matter-of-factness. Nothing seemed to break his spirit, even an Elven dungeon.

“Perhaps that is what Thorin is doing now,” he continued. “Negotiating…or parlay. Whatever it’s called.”

“Aye,” said Kíli. “Though I cannot see that these Elves are as reasonable as those we met before.” He scowled as he recalled the cruel barbs the light-haired Elf had thrown at Gloin about his wife and son.

“Rivendell,” Bilbo sighed. “What a lovely place.”

“Too still for me,” Kíli replied, gruff.

“I don’t think I will ever understand Dwarves. Must you always be fighting and moving? Can you not settle?”

“Uncle believes we can. I trust hi—” Kíli was cut short by the echoing of raised voices from the cells above.

“Keep your hands off me, Elf!” growled Thorin. “I can see myself to a cell.”

“Mind yourself, Dwarf,” said the keeper of the keys, his tenor unmistakable. “Or perhaps I shall tell the king that you should stay with us for a great while longer.”

There was a wet slap against stone. Kíli could imagine Thorin having spit at the feet of the Elf.

“I do not fear you,” said Thorin. “I doubt Thranduíl even knows your name. An audience with him would be far beyond your reach.”

The door of the cell slammed shut and a moment later Kíli could hear the keeper of the keys muttering in the slippery, silken tongue of the Elves as he ascended the stairs.

“What news, Thorin?” asked Balin. His voice sounded far away, coming from one of the upper cells. “Did the king offer you terms?”

“He did,” said Thorin. “He would send bowman to accompany us to Erebor in exchange for the diadems stolen by Smaug and a share of the treasure.”

“That is good news!” said Gloin. “There is surely enough gold in the dragon’s horde to sate him.”

“I told him no.”

“Why, Thorin?” cried Balin. “With the strength of the Elves we could slay the dragon! There would be no need to send Bilbo into the horde to steal the Arkenstone. Our people would need not muster for war. They would come home to pay homage to the King Under the Mountain. The Elves were once our allies. This is the moment to put aside old grudges.”

“Thranduíl proved already that he cannot be trusted,” said Thorin. “Had he stood against Smaug sixty years ago, our people would never have had to live in exile. He is an oath-breaker and a coward. We can succeed without him.”

“He will release us then, Uncle?” asked Fíli, his voice closer to Kíli than the others.

“I am to have another audience with him three days hence,” Thorin replied with distaste. “He believes that in that time I might decide to accept him.”

“Then you must!” said Balin. “We can afford three days, but no longer.”

Kíli waited for Thorin’s reply, but none came.

Balin called his name once more and then fell silent.

“Do you think there’s any convincing him?” asked Bilbo quietly.

“He made the choice he thought was right,” Kíli replied. “We must find another way out of here, just as you said.”

Stepping back into the dark of his cell, he crouched against the wall. Thorin had looked out for the scattered Dwarves of Erebor from the day they were driven from their homeland. His decisions has always been made for the good of their people, and Kíli knew never to question him. Yet, there was wisdom is what Balin had said. The Elves could help them.

Seeing them fight was something Kíli would not soon forget. They had appeared from the trees as if they were a part of the forest that had simply been lying in wait to defend it. They fought fiercely, but with a grace that no Dwarf or Man could hope to match.

When the Elf maid Tauriel had come down from the branches, her hair had burned behind her as though it were flame. Quick as cat she moved from foe to foe, leaving death in her wake. As she wrestled her bow from the maw of a spider, she smiled with the sheer delight of battle. Kíli, too, smiled to recall it.

The maidens of Rivendell, in their fine gowns of silk and linen, had earned few glances from him and his kin. They were too much like moving sculptures, elegant but lifeless.

Dwarf maids, few of them as there were, were always quick to laugh and as boisterous as any lad at table. They were hardy and full of joy, brightening any room into which they walked. Where their beauty was the sun, the fairness of the Elves was as cold and unapproachable as the moon.

Yet, Tauriel seemed to shine with all the life the others lacked. It was as though the dark and dreariness of Mirkwood receded when she was near. Even as she held an arrow to his throat, Kíli had been unable to look away from her.

For all her light, though, she remained unmoved by his teasing, as every Dwarf maid had been before. Their eyes had always turned to Fíli and his fine yellow beard. For the love he bore his brother, Kíli could not begrudge him the attention. He was, after all, to sit the Throne of Erebor after Thorin.

That Kíli was glad of. He had never wished for such a heavy burden. He preferred the freedom of the roving life they had led.

“Can you not settle?” Bilbo had asked.

Kíli would stand with his uncle and his brother when they took back the Mountain, but he knew he would not stay.

He wished to see the lands of Men, Rohan and Gondor, and journey the length of the Misty Mountains. Perhaps he would even venture back to Rivendell and beyond to the Mountains of Angmar or the distant isle of Himling. He was young yet and could always return to dwell beneath the Mountain when he grew as old and gray as Balin.

He knew that if he again passed through Mirkwood as an old man, none would know him. Yet, the Elf maid Tauriel would look the same, her beauty and light unmarred by time.

He shook his head in an attempt to banish both her and the thought of journeys from his mind. Escape was all he should be considering. As he looked around him, though, his mouth fell open in a wide yawn. He thought, _Perhaps I’ll sleep a while and then consider._

Crossing his arms tight across his chest, he let his chin fall and sleep claim him.

 <<< >>>

Kíli awoke to Thorin’s voice. “I’ll take no food from Elven oath-breakers!” he snarled. “If you can call that food. It would be better suited to dogs.”

“Then it is just what you deserve,” replied the keeper of the keys.

“I’ll have your head for that, Elf!” Dwalin roared.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue when you address us,” said Balin.

“Oi!” howled Bofur. “Do you know to whom you speak?”

“To Dwarven dogs, of course!” the keeper of the keys laughed. “You’re no bigger than hunting hounds after all.”

“How dare you!” Kíli cried, though his voice was lost amongst the fury of the others.

A clear alto cut through the fray, sharp as a dagger’s edge, “Silence, Beleg! There is no honor in keeping prisoners only to abuse them.”

Scrambling to the front of his cell, Kíli pressed his face against the cold bars, craning to see who spoke. “Bilbo, can you see?”

“No,” the Hobbit replied, “though I recognize that voice. It’s the Elf maid, I’d swear upon my mother’s feet.”

"What business has she here?” asked Kíli.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Bilbo, “but I’m glad she is. That Beleg fellow endears himself to no one with such foul words. Thorin will never agree to take help from his folk if he keeps it up.”

Thorin would not relent no matter what the keeper of the keys said to him, Kíli knew that for certain.

“Tauriel,” said the Elf Beleg, his voice thick with disdain. “Is your place not with your guard?”

“Mine is the second watch this day,” she replied. “I may go where I please before and after it.”

They exchanged words in their own tongue, the lilting tones betraying nothing of what was being said. After a few moments, though, Kíli heard the distinct jangling of the keys disappearing above.

“Please eat,” he heard the Elf maid say. “We are not attempting to poison you.”

“I am not hungry,” Thorin growled in reply.

“As it please you,” she said, “though perhaps the others are.”

Kíli heard nothing but gruff expressions of refusal, each growing steadily closer to his cell.

“I should say I’m quite peckish,” said Bilbo.

Kíli bit back a groan.

The Elf maid replied, “And here I thought Dwarves did not eat.”

“Well, I can’t speak for them,” Bilbo continued, “but Hobbits are always keen on breakfast.”

“Hobbits?”

“Halflings. Shirefolk. Quite different from Dwarves in fact.”

“That I can see. You are certainly more amiable, Master…”

“Bilbo Baggins. At your service.”

“Would you please shut your mouth?” Kíli called. “Or do you plan on making introductions for us all?”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” said Bilbo, sounding genuinely abashed.

Kíli sat back against the wall of his cell, muttering, “Mahal preserve us from the cordiality of Hobbits.”

“I would find their company much more cheerful than that of your folk,” said the Elf maid, appearing beyond the bars. She was without her armor, dressed in a belted green tunic and hide leggings that laced up the full length of her legs. Her hair fell down her back, the ends curling near the crooks of her knees.

“Forgive us,” Kíli replied, dry, “but captivity does little to inspire the good humor of Dwarves.”

Tauriel looked down her nose at him, holding out a package wrapped in threadbare cloth. “I suppose you, too, will refuse to break your fast.”

Kíli went to nod, but the empty growl of his stomach betrayed him.

Tauriel smiled, her teeth straight and white. “Perhaps Dwarves and Hobbits have more in common than I have been led to believe.”

“Give it to me, then,” Kíli grumbled. Taking the package from her hands, he uncovered bread and cheese. Taking the bite of the latter, he made a face. “Day-old bread and cheese harder than the stone of the Blue Mountains. Delightful.”

Frowning, Tauriel turned away.

Knowing his mother would have given him a hard slap for such rudeness, Kíli grimaced, but said, “Thank you, Lady Elf.”

She stopped, her straight back still facing him. “You are welcome, Master Dwarf.”

Struck by a sudden desire to keep her a moment longer, Kíli said, “You must have had some strong words for the keeper of the keys to send him off in such a huff.”

“Like you,” she said, looking back over her shoulder, “Beleg could take a lesson in manners. I simply reminded him of that.”

“Indeed,” said Kíli, taking a bite of the bread.

Tauriel spun slowly on her toes to face him again. “I am curious,” said she. “How is it that a Dwarf learned to shoot as you do?”

Kíli shot her a grin. “Like the look of my bow arm, do you?”

“You allow your elbow to fall,” she replied. “A mistake even our children do not make.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You are treading on dangerous ground, lady.”

She tipped her head slightly in dismissal. “If you do not wish to tell me, I will go. It was simply a question I had been meditating on.”

“I’ve been in your thoughts, then,” Kíli said before he could stop himself.

“Perhaps,” she replied, one corner of her mouth turning up.

His breakfast forgotten, Kíli rose and approached the bars.

She followed his movements with her eyes, looking him over.

Leaning against the bars, he said, “Where would you like me to begin?”

“Tauriel!” called another from the stairs beyond Kíli’s cell.

She turned and responded, frowning.

When Kíli recognized the Elf who appeared at her side, his good mood disappeared as quickly as it had come. It was the Elf of light hair who had taken Thorin from them and insulted Gloin so grievously. He beckoned to the Tauriel, summoning her elsewhere.

Turning a last time to Kíli, she said, “Good day, Master Dwarf.”

As they went from his sight, he turned back into the cell. Miming the draw of a bow, he looked back at his elbow. “I _do not_ allow it to fall,” he grumbled.

 <<< >>>

Tauriel turned at the sound of her name. Legolas was descending the stairs, his expression grim.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in Sindarin.

"I should ask you the same,” he replied. “I have been looking for you all morning. My father has requested your presence.”

Tauriel did not hide her surprise. “For what purpose?”

“He wishes to hear your account of the capture of the Dwarves.”

“Does he expect it to differ from your own?”

“I cannot say,” Legolas replied. Glancing away from her, he scowled down at the Dwarven archer.

The Dwarf returned his glare.

“Come,” said Tauriel, touching Legolas’ shoulder. “We must go to your father.” She bid the archer good day.

As she and Legolas strode away, he asked, “Why do you allow that Dwarf to stare you so?”

“He does not stare,” she said, bemused.

Legolas scoffed. “Then your eyes fail you, _mellon nin_.”

“Such interest in the passing glance of Dwarf,” Tauriel laughed, slipping her arm through his. “I might assume it is you who covets his attention.”

“Be silent,” Legolas said, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

“No denial,” Tauriel teased. “Shall I warn the Dwarf to guard his heart?”

As they approached the audience chapter, Legolas stopped, abruptly turning her to face him. “You must not trust these Dwarves, Tauriel. They will spin only lies in hopes of you freeing them.”

Sliding out of his grasp, she frowned. “I do not trust them, but I cannot believe that lies drip from their mouths as honey from the comb.”

“You’d best not tell my father that,” he replied. “I’ll look for you in the barracks this afternoon.”

Legolas disappeared into the passage beyond, leaving Tauriel before the great doors to King Thranduíl’s audience chamber.

Twice her height and as wide as her outstretched arms, the wooden panels, each one ten inches thick, were carved to depict the great battles fought against the fire serpents of the North. A young Thranduíl stood alone in the right panel, his bow drawn back as he prepared to fire into the maw the dragon curled around a boulder. The king’s face was marked by dragon fire yet he fought on.

It was a story Tauriel had heard since she was a child. Thranduíl, then a prince no older than her own six hundred years, had led a small party into the den of a she-dragon and her clutch. Without mercy they slew the kits, each taking a claw for a trophy. The she-dragon, wracked with grief, simply lay down and allowed Thranduíl to stab her through the eye. As her heart stopped, though, she sighed out the last of the fire in her belly, filling the den with blue flame.

Thranduíl threw himself into the space between the dragon’s neck and leg, evading the worst of the heat, but his companions were burned to ash, only their fine armor lying on the floor of the den, warped and twisted by the heat. Dazed and severely burned, Thranduíl managed to make his way back down the camp of his father.

The healers spent three full days tending his wounds, but there was little they could do to mend his face. A vain and proud prince, when he returned home to the Greenwood, he spent months studying the ancient texts until he discovered a way to mask his scars. It was dark sorcery some said, but that seemed an unlikely tale. Such small magics were easy work for an Elf as powerful and aged as the king.

Taking a breath, Tauriel pushed the right door. Despite its great weight, it opened soundlessly.

The audience chamber was dark within, its vaulted ceilings wound with an age’s growth of ivy and moss. What few torches burned in the wrought iron sconces did little to light the shadowed corners of the room. It could have been one of the most beautiful places within the Great House of the Greenwood, its colonnade open to the sky, filling the chamber with the golden light of a setting sun. But Thranduíl preferred the cool green of light that shone through the leaves of the ivy when he sat upon his throne of twisted branches and antlers. When Tauriel entered, though, the great chair stood vacant.

“My lord?” she said, her quiet words carrying throughout the space.

“Ah, my son succeeded in finding you, Tauriel,” said Thranduíl, gliding from the darkness behind one of the columns. “You were elusive this morning.”

Clasping her hands behind her back, she replied, “That was not my intention, my lord.”

“Of course it was not,” he said, smiling as he approached her. His head was crowned with an ornate circlet of silver, and he moved so silently that Tauriel could hear the hissing of his silk robes against the marble of the floor. His expression was cordial, but his eyes were hard, demanding an explanation.

“I was in the dungeons, my lord,” she said. “I wished to know how the prisoners were faring. I found Beleg spitting insults at them. I reminded him that he speaks for the King of the Greenwood, who treats all in a just manner.”

Thranduíl’s smile broadened. “You comport yourself with unpolluted virtue, Tauriel. It is one of the indulgences of youth.” Taking a few steps away from her, he continued, “And what do you make of our prisoners?”

“They are discourteous,” she said, “and have a rough manner of speaking. Their weapons were better cared for than their clothes, but they hold themselves with pride, even within their cells.” She thought of the sternest of the Dwarves, too proud to break his fast, and of the archer with his easy smiles and teasing.

Turning back to her, Thranduíl lifted a brow. “They intrigue you.”

“They are the first Dwarves I have seen, my lord,” she replied. “I admit that I am curious about them.”

“You should not be. They are little more than brutes, even less civil than Men. Turn your attention from them. You have other duties…which you appear to be neglecting. I thought I ordered that spider’s nest to be destroyed not two moons past.”

“We cleared the forest _as ordered_ , my lord,” Tauriel said, forcing her voice to stay even and calm. “But more spiders are coming up from the south. They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could kill them at their source—”

“That fortress lies beyond our borders,” Thranduíl snapped. “Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures. That is your task.”

Her voice rising, Tauriel replied, “And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?”

“Other lands are not my concern.”

Though she had heard this reply countless times, Tauriel could not give up hope that this time he would hear her and grant her permission.

Reading her expression, Thranduíl said, “You are young, Tauriel. You cannot see that the fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here, in this kingdom, we will endure.”

“I defer always to your wisdom,” she said, ducking her head.

Thranduíl’s smile was small, for he knew, just as she did, that her words were empty.

As Tauriel turned to go, he said, “Legolas said you fought well yesterday.”

She froze, pinching her eyes shut in the hope the she would be delivered from this moment without having to speak. The expectant silence that hung upon the king’s words, though, forced her to turn and meet his eyes. “As did he, my lord.”

“He told me you dressed his wound.”

“I did.”

Thranduíl nodded, but it was not a dismissal. “He has grown very fond of you.”

At last, there it was. For a decade she had waited, prepared the lies she had to tell. “I assure you, my lord,” she said, the words as familiar to her as old friends, “Legolas thinks of me as no more than a captain in the guard.”

“Perhaps he did once,” said Thranduíl, slowly approaching her but gliding beyond to the flagon of wine on the table at her back. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

“I do not think you would allow your son to pledge himself to a Silvan Elf,” she said, the bitterness of her kin finding its way into her voice.

“No, you’re right,” Thranduíl said as the wine he poured splashed into a chalice. “I would not. Still, he cares for you. Do not give him hope where there is none.”

She whirled around to face him. “You know I have never deceived him, my lord! He is my dearest friend and this…fondness for me will wane with time.”

Taking a deep drink of wine, Thranduíl nodded. “Yes, but you will hasten it by telling him that you can no longer offer him your friendship.”

Tauriel’s breath caught in her breast, just above her heart. “I cannot not be so cruel to him.”

“You can and you will,” he said, turning his back to her again. “It is my command. Go now, Captain. Do your duty and obey your king. You have until the night of the Feast of Starlight.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, barely above a whisper. Bowing, she made her way out, unwilling to reveal to him the tears falling down her cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

Tauriel was glad that Legolas had chosen not to join the second patrol that afternoon. Upon leaving Thranduíl, she had armed herself and set off into the forest to slay spiders until her body was exhausted and her mind clear. Battle absorbed her thoughts, allowing her a reprieve from the suffering and fury.

Yet, as she drew back her bow, she could not help but dwell upon the happy memories of her dearest friend, each now tainted by the sting of loss.

He had first appeared to her as she stood at the threshold of the cottage she shared with her mother and father. The daughter of Silvan guardsmen of no particular renown, she had heard only stories of the comeliness of the prince’s countenance and white-gold hair. But there he was, his silver armor shining despite the black blood that had dried upon it.

So captivated had Tauriel been, she did not see—until he had stopped before her—what he held in his right hand.

Barely more than a child then, she knew little of the weapons she had just begun to handle, but she had long ago learned the curves of the bow Legolas placed into her hands. Her mother’s weapon did not rest in her palms, but hummed with the life given it by the tension of the string.

When she looked up at Legolas again, his form was obscured by the tears in her eyes.

“She fought bravely and with honor,” he said in the silken tone of the highborn Sindar.

“And…my father,” Tauriel managed to say, her words coarse in comparison. “Will he return?”

There was no need for Legolas to speak as he drew the twin blades from his belt, but he said, “I am sorry.”

Taking her father’s weapons from his hands, Tauriel hung one and then the other at her hips. Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of one hand, she tightened her grip on the bow that now belonged to her. Taking a deep breath, she tried to draw back the string. Her arms began to shake as she struggled. No matter how she pulled, she could barely move it. Crying out in frustration, she released it. Her shoulders fell as she stared at her boots.

Placing two fingers beneath her chin, Legolas raised her face until she met his eyes. “Do not despair,” he said, a smile on his lips. “I cannot draw my father’s bow.”

It was only half a lie, as Tauriel learned many years later. Legolas’ marksmanship far surpassed the king’s, and there was not a bow in the Greenwood he could not bend. But, Thranduíl had forbidden his son from using his weapons, preferring to mount them in the audience chamber until they were needed again.

Tauriel had hesitantly returned the prince’s smile that day, saying, “Truly, my lord?”

“Truly,” he replied, chucking her under the chin before rising to his full height again. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said formally, “May I have your permission to take your weapon, my lady?”

Squaring her shoulders, she held the bow out to him.

“A fine weapon,” he mused, running his hands over the patterns carved into it. He tugged lightly on the string, but did not draw it back. “But it prefers your hands to mine. It would betray all but you in battle, I fear.”

Tauriel smirked. “Father refused to pick it up.”

Legolas raised a brow, eyeing the bow suspiciously. Bracing one end against his boot, he deftly unstrung it and handed it back to Tauriel. “When you are strong enough,” he said to her, “I will teach you to bend it.”

She nodded, clutching the bow to her breast.

“Come now, my lady,” said Legolas. “We are going to the Great House.” Tauriel’s eyes widened.

“I cannot. I live here.”

“This place will always belong to you,” he replied, gesturing to the cottage, “but you cannot live here alone. The king has found a place for you with the Healer of the House.”

“My…my people are warriors,” she stammered, touching one of the blades at her hip, “not healers.”

“Can you not be both?” Legolas asked. “I am a warrior, and I am prince as well.”

“That is not the same,” Tauriel said, frowning. “Prince-ing is not a trade.”

Legolas forced the smile from his face.

“You’re right, but I am right as well. I will see to it that in addition to your work with the Healer of the House, you will train with the other novices in the guard. Will that satisfy you, my lady?”

“It will, my lord.”

Looking her over, Legolas asked, “Have you other clothes?”

Tauriel shook her head. She had outgrown her other gowns long before and would have worn this one until it fell above her ankles.

“The Healer’s apprentices dress in red and the guardsmen in green. I will arrange to have garments made for you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You have your weapons,” said Legolas. “What else would you have with you in the House?”

“Nothing,” Tauriel said. She had long ago put aside her dolls, the only possessions she had.

 “Very well, then,” said Legolas. “Follow me.”

Taking a deep breath, Tauriel took hold of the door.

“Wait!” she cried. “There is one thing.” Dashing into the cottage, she climbed onto a stool and reached up onto the mantle above the hearth. She grasped the wooden box that had belonged to her mother. It was wide, though not tall, and was held closed by a tarnished silver clasp. Tucking it into the largest pocket of her dress, Tauriel looked around one last time before crossing the threshold and pulling the door closed behind her.

It was then that she saw them, her kinsmen, standing just beyond their own dwellings, their gazes falling upon her. There were few that had stayed behind when King Thranduíl had gone to war, most of them craftsmen and children, but Tauriel knew them all.

She looked them over—lithe, dark-haired, and garbed in worn fabrics the color of young leaves and old bark—and then up at the prince. He stood a full head taller than any of her people, his hair shining even in the shadows of the deep forest. Though he had been born in the Greenwood, his Sindar blood was unmistakable and unfamiliar. He was about to remove Tauriel from all that she knew, and she was afraid.

Legolas gave her a small smile, offering his hand. She took it gratefully. Without him to lead her, she knew she never would have been able to leave.

They walked through the village and along the winding path toward the Great House. Tauriel gasped as they passed through the southern gate and into the home of the king. She would not be presented to Thranduíl that day. It would be many years before she had that honor.

Instead, she followed Legolas to a small chamber in the east wing of the House, near to where the Healer and her apprentices—male and female, and all decades Tauriel’s senior—practiced their arts. The room was adorned with a small table on which sat a pitcher and basin, a wide chest, and a narrow bed.

For the first time since they had enter the House, Tauriel smiled. This was the chamber a solider: bare save the most essential things. There was little difference between it and the nook she had slept in the cottage.

“I will leave you here, my lady,” said Legolas, “but we will meet again.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, bowing her head. When she looked up again, the prince was gone and a tall maiden dressed in a gown of deep red stood in his place.

“I am Eldalótë,” she said, brisk. “You are called Tauriel?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we will have to get you some new clothes,” Eldalótë said, looking her over with disapproval, “and a sturdy brush for your hair. Are you hungry?”

Tauriel nodded.

“Good. You will sup with us now.”

She turned on her heel and started out of the room. Tauriel stood as if frozen, unsure of what to do.

“Come on then!” Eldalótë snapped. “We keep a good pace here.”

Setting down her mother’s bow and her father’s blades, Tauriel smoothed her dress as best she could and hurried after her.

For the first hundred years that Tauriel spent as an apprentice, she did little more than learn the names and uses of the herbs she ground for the red-garbed healers. She never treated even a simple cut.

She had hated it at first, but the leaves, barks, and powders slowly began to captivate her. After a time, she had become known to trip and scrape her knees or cut her fingers more often than the others. Yet, the wounds would disappear overnight, treated with the salves she made for herself.

It was not long after that she had been called before Míriel, the Healer of the House. She was Sindar and had come to the Greenwood long, long ago. There was no plant she could not use, and nothing that went on in the House went unnoticed by her.

She had looked Tauriel over with gray eyes, undoubtedly counting the mended tears and patches cleverly woven into her clothes.

“You have been preparing arrowroot,” she said. “An herb not permitted for use by a novice.”

Tauriel said nothing

“Speak up,” snapped Míriel.

“I have not, madam.”

“The tips of your fingers are tinged red and you smell of pepper.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened.

“Yes, madam,” she said, hanging her head.

Míriel said, “Look at me, child. Have you succeeded in producing the tincture?”

Holding back a grin, Tauriel drew a small vial from her sleeve. Taking it from her hand, Míriel removed the cork and sniffed the contents.

“Too strong,” she said. “It could burn the wound even as it washed away the poison.”

“That is why I would coat the wound first in a salve of athelas and honey,” said Tauriel. “It prevents the burn and begins the healing even as the poison is withdrawn.”

Míriel raised a brow. “Show me.”

Tauriel winced. The pain of applying poison oak to her arm and allowing it to darken her skin for a day was still sharp in her memory. She had no wish to do it again.

“Not on yourself, child,” said Míriel, almost laughing. “Come with me.”

They went together to into the Healer’s Hall. Tauriel’s mouth fell open as she took in the sight. Many apprentices moved between beds, administering medicines. The room was not dark and thick with the smell of burning herbs, though. It was bright, and clean air blew through it from the open space between the top of the stone wall and the roof.

Míriel stopped at the bedside of a warrior. His face was serene, but his eyes were dark with pain. The flesh of his right arm was marked with poison sores, the centers black and the skin around them a fiery red.

Tauriel drew in a sharp breath, kneeling immediately at his side.

“I need salve, hot water, and scraps of cloth,” she said without looking up. Behind her, Míriel waved for another healer to get the items. Placing a hand in his, Tauriel asked the warrior his name.

“Ithadril,” he replied, his voice thick.

“I am Tauriel. You have been poisoned and if I do not draw it out, it will plague your blood.”

He nodded stiffly.

A young healer arrived and laid the salve, a basin of water, and a pile of boiled cloths at her side.

“This will hurt,” said Tauriel, applying the salve to the edges of the wounds.

“It is not so bad,” Ithadril said, the corners of his mouth turning up as he winked.

“Not yet,” Tauriel replied, as she dropped a small amount of the tincture into the darkest part of one sore.

Ithadril cursed, hissing in pain. Quickly, Tauriel twisted a cloth into a point and dipped it into the hot water. Placing the point into the sore, she watched as the rusty tincture and poison mixture began to seep into the cloth. When she drew it away, the wound was still bright red with inflammation, but the poison was gone. Applying salve deftly with her left hand, she dropped another few drops of tincture into another wound, dipped a clean twist of cloth into the water, and then pressed it into the sore.

She was finished in less than an hour, a quarter of the time such a procedure took when done by other hands. By the time she stood, Míriel and five of her most senior apprentices stood at the side of the bed. They watched and made quiet conversation.

Ithadril, exhausted, thanked Tauriel and closed his eyes to rest.

As she stood, Míriel flashed her a rare smile and ordered one of the other healers to bring the habit of a novice practitioner.

Tauriel spent the days of the next decades garbed in the red of a healer. She had great skill tending to those in the Healer’s Hall, but as she discovered, her true gifts lay on the battlefield, both with weapons and bandages.

True to his word, Legolas arranged for her for her train with the novices of the guard. She was permitted to go to the training yard every third day. She had been disappointed with so little time until Legolas had appeared at her chamber door one evening after supper. He told her to bring her weapons and follow him. They went into the fading light of the day, and he taught her to wield blades and bow. Those were long days split between herbs and blades, but Tauriel loved her work.

Over the many years he spent as her teacher, Legolas became her friend and confidant. She had other friends among the guard and the healers, but none were as dear to her as the prince. He had given her the highest commendation before his father when she and two others had been considered to serve as captain of the guard.

Míriel had been there as well. She, too, told the king of the prowess of her apprentice, but admitted that she hoped Tauriel was not made captain so that she might take up the mantle of Healer of the House one day.

“It appears, Tauriel,” said the king, his voice deep and resonant in the audience chamber, “that you have a decision to make. How will you serve your lord and those in my realm?”

She felt the weight of the satchel of herbs and bandages at her belt and that of her blades, bow, and quiver. If she choose either life she would not be forced to give them up, but she had always felt cloistered in the House. She breathed easier in the free air of the forest. And from there she could see the stars. Turning to Míriel, she bowed low.

“My lady Healer,”she said, “you have given me a home these many years, and you have given me your knowledge. I am honored that you would choose me to succeed you, but my people are warriors and I wish to honor that legacy.” After a moment, she felt a gentle touch at the crown of her head.

“All I ask is that you do not allow your gift to languish.”

Rising, Tauriel saw that Míriel was smiling. Grasping her hands, Tauriel brought them to her lips.

“Upon the lives of my mother and father,” she said, “I swear that I will not.”

When she turned to Legolas, his face was alight with joy. She flashed him a smile as she knelt at before the throne.

“My lord,” she said as she drew her bow and placed it before her, “if you should see fit to name me captain of the guard of the Greenwood, I am prepared to serve.”

Thranduíl rapped the butt of his staff thrice against the stone of chamber floor.

“Then stand, Captain,” said he, “and take command of your guardsmen.”

As she was leading her first patrol into the forest that evening, Legolas had appeared. He had worn the green and leathers of a plain guardsman and made quick salute with his bow, as was due the captain of the guard.

Tauriel had hidden a smile, saying, “About time.”

Legolas had strode up her with a grin on his face and mischief in his eyes. He waited, though, for her command to march. She had known then that he no longer considered her his student, but accepted her as his commander on patrol. At last, the little girl whose hand he had held as they entered the south gate would stand as his comrade in arms as they crossed the threshold again.

 <<< >>>

As night settled upon the Greenwood, Tauriel made her last kill. Yet she tarried in returning to the Great House, skirting the barracks, knowing that Legolas would likely be there waiting for her. She was not yet prepared to face her friend, so she sought out the sunken stairway that led to the depths of the House.

The baths were deserted when she arrived, the six steaming pools creating a haze in the cavern. Setting her weapons down, she breathed in the thick air. She disrobed quickly and slid into the water. It was warm enough to sting her skin, but it could not burn away what she would have to do. She cursed.

Were it any other quandary, Tauriel would have gone immediately to Legolas for his counsel. He listened well, and his cool assessment always steadied her. Her temper was far more variable than his. Where she would pace the length of the guard room and chew the tips of her fingernails, he would sit in silence and reflect upon the problem at hand. Only when he had considered it fully did he make a decision.

_He will make a good king_ , Tauriel thought, smiling to herself. The feeling faded quickly, though, as King Thranduíl entered her mind again. His command turned over and over in her thoughts, causing the ache in her breast grow more acute. She had never once disobeyed the king—she gave him her unfaltering loyalty and obedience—but she knew she had not the strength to look Legolas in the eye and make him believe that she no longer desired his friendship. She respected the king, but she loved her friend.

“Why must I choose?” she said, her voice bouncing around the vaults of the ceiling and back to her.

She sank into the water, silencing the noise of the world. But thoughts of her abhorrent task would not leave her, driving her up and out of the bath in a sudden fury. She cursed Thranduíl then. The words were acrid on her tongue and part of her was ashamed, but the sorrow and rage that roiled in her gut tamped the guilt down.

If she refused the king’s order, she would surely be banished from the realm, never to see Legolas or her home again. Yet, it would be a worse fate to remain in the Greenwood when she was forbidden to speak to the prince.

Tauriel forced her clothing on without drying herself and wove her wet hair into a simple plait down her back. Three days and two nights until _Mereth en Gillith_. She would need them to gather her strength for whatever she chose. Picking up her weapons, she began the slow climb up the staircase that would take her through the dungeons and into the House.

Accustomed to the silence of the cells, she reached for her knife when she heard the voices. She stilled her hand, though, as she recognized the common tongue. She had all but forgotten about the imprisoned Dwarves.

Her brow creased into a deep frown. What was it that Legolas had told her? The leader of their band, the stern Dwarf, was to take the three days before the feast to make a choice: agree to Thranduíl’s terms or face the rest of his life in an Elven prison. And Tauriel surmised that those terms did not place the Dwarf in a position any better than her own.

The face of Dwarven archer flashed into her mind. Tauriel caught her breath. Should the stern Dwarf refuse the king, he would not only be forfeiting his life, but condemning his companions to same fate.

“The will of Thranduíl,” she spat.

“Did you hear something?” The voice was deep and pleasing to the ear.

“I don’t rightly know,” was the reply. This voice was brighter, higher, and without the coarseness of the former. Tauriel could not help but smile as she recognized it.

“Who goes there?” The deeper voice again.

“You have keen ears, Master Dwarf,” said Tauriel, rounding a turn in the spiral staircase so that she could be seen. “I bid you good evening.”

The archer stood at the door of his cell, one hand grasping an iron bar. He looked no worse for wear after a night and a day, Tauriel noted, though the tension in his form was visibly released when he recognized her. He had been on his guard. She could not fault him for that.

“Good evening to you, Lady Elf,” he said. “Yours was a face I did not expect to see again. Have you business here or is it good company you’re seeking?” The corner of his mouth quirked up for a moment, but he hid it well.

“I am not obliged to explain myself to you,” she replied, approaching the cell with measured steps. Despite herself, she slipped easily back into using the haughty tone she had adopted in her banter with the archer the day before. Lifting her chin, she said, “This is the king’s stair and I may go where I please.”

The Dwarf shrugged, saying, quite loudly, “Well, you can’t fault a lad for hoping, eh Bilbo?”

“It is certainly a pleasure to see you again, Lady Tauriel,” said the Hobbit from the cell adjacent.

“Good evening, Master Baggins,” she said, stepping up a few paces to smile at him. It was his voice she had known, for there was an inherent cheerfulness about it. “Forgive me for not greeting you properly.”

“No harm done, my lady,” he assured her, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his threadbare trousers. “No harm at all.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both searching for more to say. Tauriel was unaccustomed to polite chatter. It was not something her people practiced.

“Fine evening,” said Bilbo, looking around the cell. “I assume.”

“It is,” Tauriel laughed. “I’ve just come from forest. Shall I describe it?”

“Certainly!”

“There was a bright sun today,” she began, “though the wind carried the chill of winter.”

“Can you feel the breeze in the forest?” Bilbo asked. “I could not. It was only when I climbed above the trees that I could breathe fresh air.”

“You climbed the tall trees?” Tauriel asked.

“Don’t let a Hobbit’s size fool you, my lady,” he said, rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels. “There is much we can do.”

“I do not doubt that, Master Baggins.”

“The moon must have risen over the trees by now,” he said, contemplative.

Tauriel wondered if all Hobbits were so captivated by the weather, but she said, “There’s little more than a sliver, for three nights hence is the new moon.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted.

“It was dank here in the morning,” the archer called from below. “The afternoon was equally dank, and it appears that will be dank tonight.”

Tauriel frowned down at his cell, though she could not see him. Bilbo followed her gaze. Giving her a small smile, he made a bow. She inclined her head and excused herself. When she arrived before the archer again, she found him sitting with his back against the wall.

“Does the weather bore you, Master Dwarf?” she asked.

“Tremendously, Lady Elf.”

“Indeed,” said Tauriel, lifting a brow. “Is there something you would rather discuss?”

“That’s a fine bow,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you hunt only spiders in your forest or is there game to be had?”

“There was once,” Tauriel sighed, “though since the spiders have come, the creatures of the forest have fled.”

“Pity,” said the archer, shaking his head. “Will you have naught for your Feast of Moonlight, then?”

“Starlight,” Tauriel corrected. “The larder here is never empty, and it is rare we kill for meat.”

“Now there’s a true pity,” he groaned, rubbing a hand over his middle. “What I wouldn’t give for a rack of lamb just now. We keep quite a number of sheep. Dwarves, I mean.”

“I did not know that,” said Tauriel wryly.

The archer glanced once to each side of his cell and then leaned closer to the bars. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “I will tell you a great secret of my people, lady.” A pause. “We are not all jewel cutters and armorers.” He fell back against the wall and scratched at the dark beard on his chin. “Not that we cannot craft fine things or repair our armor, of course.”

“Of course,” Tauriel said, a half smile on her lips. The archer looked quite affronted.

“Do you not believe me, Lady Elf?”

“I have no reason to take you at your word,” she said, “but I will. This once.”

A hand over his heart, he bowed his head. “I thank you, lady.”

Tauriel gave a light “ _Hmph_ ,” placing her hands on her hips.

“If you are not a goldsmith or an armorer,” she asked, “what is your trade, Master Dwarf?”

He grinned, springing onto his feet. Though he was broad and stout, Tauriel could not deny that he was agile.

“Master bowman,” he said, standing straight and proud. “The finest archer Dwarf-kind has seen for an age.”

Tauriel ran her fingers across the carved wood of her bow and gently plucking the string so that it hummed.

“Will your boasting hold up in a true test of skill?” she asked. “I think not.”

Curling his fingers around the thick bars of the cell gate, the archer pressed his face against the iron.

“Are you challenging me, Lady Elf?”

Tauriel shrugged a shoulder, dismissive.

“Then who would you pit against me in this contest if you do not have the courage to stand yourself?”

“You are no position to call me a coward,” she said. “It was I who came to your aid when you were on the brink of death by spider bite.”

He echoed her shrug.

“It matters not. I would only stand against the finest archer in Mirkwood.”

Rising to her full height, Tauriel looked down her nose at him. “I am she. Even Prince Legolas conceded defeat to me in our last tournament.”

“Besting a prince,” said the archer. “I am duly impressed. Came down from his tower to cavort with the humble captain of the guard?”

Tauriel nearly flinched. His words were far too reminiscent of Thranduíl’s.

“Do you often insult your captors for your own pleasure?” she snapped. He grinned, baring white, straight teeth.

“This is my first attempt, for I have never been captured before.” He looked down at his hands as though inspecting the nails. “Though I admit, I do derive a certain pleasure from it.”

“Legolas does not think himself above me,” Tauriel said, her voice softening. “Especially not after I out shot him.” She spun back to face the Dwarf. “You’ve met him. He led the party that _caught you_.”

“That was the prince?” said the archer, his brows rising. “I mistook him for your kin.”

“Why?” asked Tauriel, brows knit. “We bear no resemblance.”

“He is...protective of you,” he replied, his face darkening.

Tauriel drew in a slow breath. On their way up from the dungeons a day ago, she had been teasing him about the Dwarves...no, about the archer. While most days Legolas suffered her jabs, she knew to avoid it during his dark moods. On those days he reminded her very much of his father.

“He spoke to you,” she said to the Dwarf. “And not kindly.”

He inclined his head in assent. “Aye. Not so long ago. I may have…spoken to him of you as he passed this way. He told me to keep my eyes cast down in the presence of a maiden of Mirkwood.” The surprise must have shown on Tauriel’s face, for the archer added, “I thought perhaps he was a brother to you. Or a cousin.”

“And did you have a clever reply for him,” Tauriel asked, “as you do for me?”

“Of course not,” he said, though he did not bother to hide the spark of mischief in his gaze. “Though I did cast my eyes down and beg the lady forgive me.”

“You devious creature!” Tauriel cried, wrapping her fingers tight around the bars of the cell. “That is a slight Legolas will not soon forget! Do you wish to stay in this cell until you end your days?”

“I’ve been in worse company,” he replied, stepping toward her and placing his hands just beneath hers.

“You are a great fool, then,” Tauriel snarled. She pushed away from him, pacing across the narrow landing.

“I have upset you,” said the archer. “That was not my intention, my lady. Your prince is dear to you—”

“That is none of your concern!” she snarled. “Master Dwarf, I advise you to keep silent should you see him again.” Without another word, she began to climb the stairs.

Though she heard him say, “Goodnight, my lady,” she did not turn back.

As she reached the highest cell, she heard, “Whatever it is you want with my nephew, Elf, I’ll not abide by it.” The stern Dwarf was glaring at her from the gloom of his cell. “And keep that prince of yours away as well.”

“If you expect me to follow the order of a Dwarf,” Tauriel said, “you are just as great a fool as your nephew.” Striding away, she entered the passages of the Great House. Her weapons could be oiled in the morning, she decided. All she wished for was the quiet of her chamber and the oblivion of rest.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Steady now,” he said, the voice barely a hiss of air against Kíli’s ear. “Take a breath, boy.”_

_Not realizing he had been holding it, he did as his uncle commanded. He drew in the cool air slowly, pulling the bowstring back just a touch further._

_Good,” said Thorin. “Now loose.”_

__Sighting along the shaft, Kíli blinked and let the arrow fly. A moment later he heard a deep thud as it buried itself in the chest of a shaggy mountain sheep. The beast made a gurgling noise and fell to its knees. Kíli watched, frozen in place, as it heaved another breath and then slumped to its side. Its small, golden eyes blinked once, twice, and closed._ _

_Thorin strode past Kíli and over to the ram. Drawing the curved blade he wore at his waist, Thorin slit the ram’s throat with a splash of red into the gorse._

_"Come, Kíli.”_

_Moving as though his legs were wooden, he made his way over. “Forgive me, uncle,” he said, hanging his head. “I could not—”_

_Thorin cut him short. “You did well, nephew. Killing is not to be done lightly, whether it is beast or foe at the tip of your blade.” He gripped Kíli’s bicep and smiled. “You struck it in the heart. A clean kill. You have but ten years and already you are a finer archer than I.”_

_Tentatively, Kíli met his eyes. “Thank you, uncle.”_

_"Come,” said Thorin, getting to his feet. “Let us carry our prize back to your mother. I will teach you to butcher it.”_

Thorin had carried the ram back to the village over his broad shoulders. Kíli remembered following behind him and wishing only to be as strong as his uncle. At seventy-seven—though considered by some of his folk to be another decade or so away from manhood—Kíli could bear a ram on each shoulder.

How Kíli yearned to be among the quiet crags and slopes of the Blue Mountains now. They calmed him, and provided a respite from the din of smithies and whetstones. Dwarves were a lively people, happiest at table with a mug of strong ale, meat on the bone, and good company, but Kíli found a strange solace in the muted half-dark of daybreak on the mountainside. He would watch the moon setting and the last of the stars fading away as he climbed up in search of the herd.

The air on those mornings had been crisp and free. It was altogether unlike the stagnant and clammy chill in the Elven dungeons where he sat. He had slept poorly the night before. After the Elf maid had left him, he had paced his cell, brooding over her reproof. It was not in Kíli’s nature to guard his tongue for fear of giving offense, but he felt a certain hollowness in his gut after having parted with her on such bad terms.

“She’s one bloody Elf,” he grumbled. “What does it matter?”

“She’s quite a fine person, Elf or not,” said Bilbo from the cell down the way. Kíli cursed himself. He often forgot how keen the ears of Hobbits could be.

“Fine enough, I suppose,” he replied.

“It was terribly kind of her to check in on us yesterday,” Bilbo said, as if he had not heard. “Perhaps she will come again today.” He paused for a moment, but when Kíli did not respond, he continued. “I can’t imagine she was truly put off by your antics yesterday, though the prince certainly was.”

“He deserved it,” Kíli spat. “It’s his thrice-blasted father who is keeping us locked up here after all.”

“And telling you off as he did was rather presumptuous, wasn’t it?” asked Bilbo. “Seeing as he is not a relation of Lady Tauriel…and has no particular claim on her.”

Kíli narrowed his eyes, imagining that pale princeling running his hands through the Elf maid’s russet hair. Those imagined hands suddenly became wider, the finger thick and callused, with a few familiar scars crossing the knuckles. Balling his fists, he tried not to wonder if her hair was as soft as it looked.

“All these Elves offer false courtesy,” he said, “but beneath lies treachery.”

“I would not call Lady Tauriel treacherous!” said Bilbo, sounding quite affronted. “She has shown us only good will. And she spared your life when she could have let the spider take you.”

“That she did,” Kíli sighed, resigned. “I didn’t mean to speak ill of her, Bilbo. I admit, I am not myself in this place.”

“It does make one long for the comforts of hole and hearth,” he said, wistful. “What I wouldn’t give for a pan of scones and clotted cream…”

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything quite so fine for you, Master Baggins, but there is something here to break your fast.”

Kíli scrambled to his feet at the sound of Tauriel’s voice, brushing what filth he could from his worn leggings and tunic. She exchanged good mornings with Bilbo before rounding the corner into Kíli’s line of sight.

“Good morning, Lady Elf,” he said, eyeing the small satchel she carried. “Come to cavort with the lowly beggars and thieves?”

“And which are you, Master Dwarf?” she asked, her eyes flashing with amusement. “Thief or beggar?”

“Both,” he replied, grinning. “Depending on the circumstances.”

“In that case, I believe that today you are a beggar.” Tauriel swung the satchel back and forth in front of the cell door, just out of Kíli’s reach. “If you wish to eat, that is.”

Kíli stifled a whoop of laughter. A moment before he had been sure he would never see her again, yet here she was, jesting with him as if they were old friends. “How would you like your groveling, then, my lady?” he asked. “Shall I get down on my knees, or cower like a blind man? Sing the praises of your beauty so all may know of it?”

She looked down her nose at him. “If I wished for someone to grovel to me, I would summon the novice guardsmen. However, I am not in the mood. Instead, Master Dwarf,” she said, putting a hand on her hip, “I will give you your meal in exchange for your name.”

Kíli hesitated, feeling as though someone had kicked him in the chest. She was truly something to behold, lighting up the murky gloom of the dungeons with her teasing grin. She wore her hair loose, and Kíli’s fingers itched to touch it. Swallowing heavily, he managed to find his voice.

“Very well,” he said, bowing at the waist. “I am Kíli, son of Dís. At your service.”

Tauriel’s smile grew wider. “It is an honor to know you, Kíli, son of Dís. And here is your breakfast.”

“Thank you…Tauriel,” he said, taking the satchel and removing a loaf of hard bread. With a last thought of Bilbo’s scones and clotted cream, he sighed and tore off a chunk of the bread with his teeth.

“Is it to your liking?”

He swallowed it with significant effort. “Hardly. But if we are to escape, we must keep up our strength.”

“And how is it that you will manage that?” Tauriel asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Dunno just now,” said Kíli, with a shrug, “but if there’s a way, and you can trust a Dwarf to find it.”

“These caves are as old as the Greenwood,” said Tauriel, opening her arms wide, “and none have ever gotten free of them save by the will of the king.”

Setting the loaf down, Kíli went to the front of the cell. Curling his fingers around the bars, he glanced to his left and right. “And have they held many of my people?”

“Not in my lifetime. And I have lived all of it under the shade of the great trees.”

Kíli grinned. “Then you cannot know with certainty that escape is beyond us.”

“No,” said Tauriel. “I suppose I cannot.” She paused for a moment, casting her gaze down as her brows knit.

“Speak, Tauriel,” Kíli said. “For I can see that you wish to.”

Though she did not look up, she said, “Stories are told among my people that our most skilled mason cannot work stone half as well as a Dwarf. It is said that your kind can whisper the language of earth, and mountains will bend to your will.” She spoke with gravity and the touch of reverence that was due any ancient legend, whether or not it was true.

“Sometimes I think they might,” Kíli laughed. “I am a poor hand at cutting and shaping stone, and have often envied those who do it well. Bofur, one of our company, is a wizard with stonework. Perhaps he knows the right words to whisper.”

Tauriel sank down to sit on the step. “And what of metalwork and gems? Does this Bofur speak to them as well?”

Kíli rolled his eyes. “Absolutely not. If it’s fine diadems and cut jewels you want, it’s Dori you’d call on. Nori’s a fine hand with leatherwork. For weapons, it’d take a blade from Oin alone. Gloin fashions a handsome chalice, though, and perhaps some beads to braid into your beard.” He winked. “If you had one, of course. Ori knows his way about a stable. Never seen a pony take to a lad quicker in my life. Balin’s a man of letters. Bombur’s one for food. Just have a look at him. The rest of us: Bifur, Dwalin, Thorin, my brother Fíli and I live by our blades.”

“You’re warriors.”

“Aye,” said Kíli. “And farriers and traders and hunters. We go where there’s work to be had.”

Tauriel made a face. “You’re a band of mercenaries.”

“Rarely,” said Kíli, rubbing the back of his neck. “More often we run guard for merchant caravans through Dunland and down the Greenway to the south. There wasn’t much by way of violence, but it helped to have a few good lads about to frighten the raiders away.”

“You enjoy it,” said Tauriel, resting her chin in her hand. Kíli liked the way she cocked her head just slightly as she listened, as if giving each word due consideration.

“I did. I could walk or ride wherever I pleased. I hunted what I needed and traded furs for sacks of apples and bread. It was a fine life.”

“Will you return to it when your journey here is done?”

Kíli eyed her and said, slyly, “You assume that we will be released.”

“Dwarves are clever,” Tauriel replied, “or so I’ve been told. Perhaps you can manage to escape.”

“Indeed,” Kíli laughed. “Should I have the chance, I would return, but my allegiance is to my uncle and if he wishes to stay, I will stay with him.”

“That I understand,” Tauriel said, though a dark look passed over her face. “We serve those to whom we are sworn.”

Kíli pressed his face against the bars of the cell door, asking, “What troubles you, lady?”

Tauriel looked startled, and Kíli thought that perhaps she would not answer, but after a moment, she said, “King Thranduíl has commanded me to do something, and I am…reluctant to obey.” She looked up and met his eyes. He could see pain reflected there. “I do not believe it is right, but as his subject and captain of the guard, I must do as he commands.”

Kíli wanted to give her comfort, but he did not know how. He was a solider, just as she was, and obedience to Thorin was not something he questioned. He thought of taking her hand, but thought the better of it. Instead, found himself reaching into his pocket and drawing out a smooth, black stone. He absently ran his thumb over the runes carved into it.

“The stone in your hand,” said Tauriel. “What is it?”

“It is a talisman,” Kíli replied, which was true, though what he said next was not. “A powerful spell lies upon it. If any but a Dwarf reads the runes on this stone...they will be forever cursed!” He had meant to tease her, when he saw Tauriel flinch back, he added, “Or not. It’s just a token. A rune stone. My mother gave it to me so I’d remember my promise.”

“What promise?” Tauriel’s interest in the stone had brightened her mood again, and Kíli was glad for it.

“I promised that I would come back to her,” he said. “She worries. She thinks I’m reckless.”

Tauriel’s brows went up. “Are you?”

“Nah.” With a shrug, he flicked the stone with his thumb, sending it spinning up. He had intended to catch it, but he misjudged the force of the initial flip. Instead of falling back into his fingers, the stone ricocheted off one of the cell door and onto the floor. To his relief, Tauriel sprang to her feet, quick as a cat, and snatched it up. She held it up between her narrow forefinger and thumb.

“What does it say?”

“ _Innikh dê_ ,” Kíli said. “Return to me.”

“ _Innikh dê_ ,” Tauriel repeated, though imperfectly.

“Not bad…for an Elf,” he said, smiling.

Tauriel rolled her eyes and handed the stone back to him. It warm from her hand. Kíli folded his fingers around it, unwilling to tuck it back into his pocket just yet.

“I hear your lot is preparing for quite the party tomorrow.”

“It is _Mereth en Gillith_ ,” Tauriel replied, a little smile touching her mouth. “The Feast of Starlight.” She turned away, her gaze distant. “All light is sacred to the Eldar, but Wood Elves love best the light of the stars.”

“I always thought it a cold light,” said Kíli, recalling the cool mornings on the mountainside as he prepared to hunt. “Remote and far away.”

“It is memory!” Tauriel cried, whirling back to face him. “Precious and pure.” Softer, she added, “Like your promise.”

Kíli tightened his fist, feeling the runes press into his skin.

“I have walked there sometimes,” Tauriel said, “beyond the forest and up into the night. The king forbids it, but in this I have betrayed him. For I have seen the world fall away and white light forever fill the air.”

“My uncle used to tell us stories,” said Kíli, “by finding pictures in the stars. In the summer, we would lay out under the sky with naught but the long grass beneath us and gaze up as he told us of the anvil that the great smith Fenthir built at the top of the Lonely Mountain. Upon it he forged the Guiding Star, which allows all Dwarves to find their way home. When he was finished, though, he threw the anvil into the heavens so that no other could use it to forge a star that might mislead his people. And that is why, just below the bright Guiding Star, is the shape of the anvil.” Kíli shook his head. “It’s all nonsense of course, but all Dwarf children know the tale.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Tauriel, returning to her perch on the step nearest his cell. “You are very fond of your uncle.”

“He is my blood,” said Kíli, “and I will lay down my life for the love I bear him.”

Tauriel frowned. “What of your promise to your mother? Is she not also your blood?”

Kili sighed. “I swore an oath to Thorin on the day we left the Blue Mountains that I would serve him as—” He had nearly slipped and said “king,” but managed to stop himself. “Serve him for as long as he might have need of me. If I perish protecting him, then my mother will know I died with honor.”

“Honor does not replace a son.”

“No,” Kíli agreed. “But it means he did not die in vain. And Dwarf women are accustomed to burying their sons and husbands.” Tauriel looked at him in perfect horror.

“There are few Dwarf women,” he said. “For every one girl child there are three boys born to my people. While Dwarf maids fight as fiercely as any man, they are only called upon in times of dire need. Men fight—and die—in our battles. One of the longest-lived matrons buried eight husbands and bore fourteen children, two of them girls.”

It was Edirna, that particular matron’s youngest daughter, that he remembered most fondly. She was the loveliest of the young maids. Her black hair, wound always in an intricate plait, fell to her knees. She had had little beard to speak of as a girl, but it came with age. She was quick of wit with the lads who would court her, but patient and kind to all others. And when she sang all other voices would still. She knew all the ballads, those of the adventures of great heroes and those passionate loves. Kíli had spoken to her little when Thorin’s company would return to the Blue Mountains, but her smile was always a pleasure to see. Her gaze had never lingered long on him, though. It had always been Fíli that drew her eye.

“I cannot imagine such suffering,” said Tauriel, bring Kíli back to the present. “How could she bear to wed again after her love had perished?”

“It’s true then,” Kíli mused, scratching his chin. “Elf-kind love only once.”

“Of course not,” Tauriel scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Our lives are far too long to take only one lover. But a union—a marriage, as you call it—is made only once. Perhaps that is what you mean.”

Kíli shrugged. “One of the stories Uncle Thorin told us was about the Widow, a constellation that rises in the chill of winter. It is meant to appear as a weeping Elf woman who died of a broken heart when her husband was killed upon the battlefield.”

“We too know the Widow and her tale,” Tauriel said. “It is not uncommon that when the life of one's beloved ends, one chooses to go into the West, unable to bear the pain of loss, but our hearts simply do not stop beating when they are broken. Would you say such things about your Dwarf maids?”

“No,” said Kíli, struggling not to laugh at her ire. “Maids, after all, can choose when and who they wish to wed.”

Tauriel looked up, surprised. “Oh?”

“Of course,” Kíli replied. “A Dwarf maid of marrying age has her pick of the finest smiths, warriors, jewelcrafters, and stonemasons.”

“Then,” said Tauriel, with an air of extravagant deference, “certainly you, as ‘the finest archer Dwarf-kind has seen for an age,’ would be among them?”

“Alas no,” Kíli sighed, covering his face as if ashamed. “I’ve hardly any beard to speak of, which the Dwarven lasses won’t stand for.”

Tauriel shook her said. “What does that matter, when you are a comely and capable warrior without?”

“You think me comely, lady?” he asked, preserving a teasing tone despite the sudden tightness in his chest. The pressure grew as he watched her cheeks flush.

“I…well…” she stammered. “I imagine a Dwarf maid would find you so.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but it is unlikely that I will wed. I am a second son, after all, and have neither land nor riches to offer a maid.”

“Would you seek a companion among others, then?” she asked. “Perhaps among the Men with whom you trade?”

“Well,” Kíli said, dragging the word out longer than necessary, “there’s something a bit…unseemly about having to stand on the tips of your toes to kiss your sweetheart.”

Tauriel shot him a disapproving look. “There has been many a maid who has done so, and many a lad who has stooped. It is of little consequence to lovers.”

Kíli grinned. “I reckon it won’t hurt her to meet me halfway.”

“Indeed,” said Tauriel, leaning back on her elbows. “You are tall for a Dwarf.”

<<< >>>

Tauriel’s stomach flipped as the Kíli’s mouth eased slowly into a smile. _Kíli_. It was an unusual name, very unlike those of the Elves of the Greenwood, but it was pleasant to hear and to say. Tauriel thought it suited him well.

“‘Tall, comely, a capable warrior,’” he intoned, his dark eyes flashing with mischief. “‘Reckless.’ And last night you called me a fool.”

“Is it not possible to be all of those things?” Tauriel replied, hoping her question would distract from the heat in her cheeks. What was it about him that made her tongue so loose? Legolas had long ago taught her to guard her words, especially among those in the House of Healing and around his father. Among her people, she could keep herself in check, but somehow Kíli brought out the candor she had learned to suppress.

“And being called a fool was no more than you deserved,” she said. “You are in no position to cross Legolas.”

“I could best him,” Kíli said, crossing his arms over his chest with a childlike pout.

Tauriel frowned. “Legolas has been one of the finest warriors of the Greenwood for centuries. I could not best him on the field, let alone a Dwarf youth.”

Kíli shot her a dark look, but did not correct her.

“How old _are_ you?” asked Tauriel, softening her tone and expression.

“I’ve seven decades and seven years,” he replied between clenched teeth. Tauriel had hit a sore spot and was sorry for it.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I should not have spoken so.”

“No, Tauriel,” Kíli sighed. The way he said her name sent a shiver of heat down her spine. “There’s nothing to forgive. I am…young to be a part of this journey. Were I not sister-son to our leader, I would not be along.”

“That cannot be the only reason,” Tauriel said. “By my people’s reckoning, I am too young to command the guard, but the king would not place the lives of his people in the hands of one who cannot lead them. I proved myself to him, as you must have to your uncle.” She smiled. “He threatened me, you know.”

Kíli’s hands tightened around the bars of his cell door. Tauriel noted the white lines of scars across his knuckles. Young though he may be, he had seen his share of battle.

“My uncle does not…think highly of Elves.”

“No, he certainly does not,” Tauriel said, shaking her head, “but it was you he was concerned for. He wanted me to stay away from you.”

“But you have not,” he replied, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken query.

“I have no reason to,” said Tauriel. “We are simply conversing. I mean you no ill will.”

Kíli gave her a small smile. “I know.”

Tauriel held his gaze, her own smile echoing his. She realized that she had not felt so light, so unhindered by the things that had always worried her—the spiders, Legolas’s affection, the will of the king—for many decades. “Thank you for the conversation, Kíli. I have enjoyed it.”

“As have I, Tauriel. It is good to have a…ah, well, a…”  He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Friend,” she finished for him. He nodded, and they both grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOTFA was heart-wrenching, so I'm covering my ears, singing "LALALALALALALA," and pretending this is canon. 
> 
> Edited on 12/26/2014 according to the fantastic feedback from anddante.


	5. Chapter 5

Tauriel was in good spirits as she made her way from the dungeons to the barracks of the guard. The morning patrol had already departed, and the common room was dim when she arrived, lit only by unsteady light of a crackling fire.

Rain was falling on the balcony outside, casting a murky twilight upon the Greenwood. Tauriel extended her hand into the mist to feel the drops’ erratic drumbeat against her skin. She would have this weather to discuss with Bilbo when next she saw him. That evening, perhaps.

Kíli would not care to hear of the weather, though.

Smiling absently, Tauriel tried to imagine what quip he might should he hear her prattling on about a shift in the wind, the slant of the sun. He would cross his arms over his chest no doubt, and mutter complaints to himself until neither Tauriel nor Bilbo could ignore him any longer. She would go down to his cell slowly, as though reluctant to indulge him. Then—

“You smell of Dwarf,” said a familiar voice from the shadows.

“Legolas,” Tauriel said, turning. “You were waiting for me.”

He stepped into the light, his face set in a deep frown. He was dressed in the white and gold finery he donned only when taking meals with his father. They must have broken their fast together. An empty chalice dangled between his fingers.

“I expected to see you long before this, Tauriel. Was the talk of prisoners compelling enough to keep you from patrol?”

She bristled, but forced her voice to remain steady. “I was enquiring after their welfare. Prisoners though they may be, it is beneath us to treat them poorly.”

“Would you give them soft beds and rich meals?” Legolas scoffed. “Even the one who would call himself king looks a beggar and speaks to my father as though they were equals.”

Tauriel narrowed her eyes. “King? What do you mean?”

“It is of little consequence,” he said, his gaze hard and cold. “After all, there is no longer any King under the Mountain.”

Tauriel went over the faces of the Dwarves in her mind, settling at last on the brooding eyes of Kíli’s uncle, the stern one. The stories she had heard as a girl came steadily back to her: the fall of the great kingdom of Erebor to the dragon Smaug, the death of King Thrór, and the madness of his son Thrain, King in Exile.

“If the line of Durin remains unbroken,” she said, “then this Dwarf is the rightful heir to the throne of Erebor. We hold the Dwarven king in our dungeons like a common thief! How can you allow this, Legolas?”

“Thorin Oakenshield is no king,” he spat. “His line is poisoned by the greed of his forefathers. If he retakes Erebor, he will only bring ruin to these lands.”

“Greater ruin than the desolation of Smaug?!” Tauriel cried. “This is madness, Legolas! You assume that this Thorin cannot have a nature different than that of Thrain. You of all Elves should understand that the son is not bound to follow the path of his father.”

“Mind what you say, Tauriel!” Legolas snarled. “I have called you my friend these many years, but perhaps I have allowed you liberties you should not have been afforded.”

She flinched back, his words like a hard blow to her face.

“I am sorry,” Legolas said, reaching out to her, “I should not have—”

“No,” she interjected. “It is I who spoke out of turn. I will beg your forgiveness, my prince, and take my leave.”

His call of her name followed her as she strode out of the common room.

Her cheeks were alight, from both fury and shame. Never before had Legolas, her dearest friend, made her so starkly aware that her Silvan birth was so far below his own. His disdain for the Dwarves had irked her, but she did not think him capable of true hatred. Yet, he spoke of Thorin Oakenshield as though he were little more than dirt beneath his boot heel. For the first time, she had seen the shadow of Thranduíl’s bitterness and conceit in Legolas, and she hated it. She feared it would twist him into something terrible.

Grinding her teeth, Tauriel made for the armory. Ingwion and Edrahil were startled from their quiet conversation as she breezed in, face stony.

“ _Nikerym_ ,” said Ingwion, wide-eyed. “What trouble is there?”

“It is nothing,” she replied, curt. Lifting her bow from the pegs on the wall, she deftly strung it and set it across her back. “I am going into the wood.”

“Alone?” asked Edrahil.

“If I find I am in need of companionship,” Tauriel snapped as she fastened her father’s blades onto her belt, “I will seek out the morning patrol.”

She did not look back to see the bowed heads of her guardsmen. Her eyes were focused only on the rain-darkened trees. Pulling a hood over her hair, she strode out into the damp.

Her path did not, however, lead her in pursuit of the morning patrol. The track beneath her feet had once been paved with gray stone from the mines of Erebor, but time and growth had reclaimed it. She stepped over the gnarled roots that had woven themselves through the splintered rock, her boots scarcely disturbing leaf or frond.

Just two days before she had walked this trail to the clamorous accompaniment of thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit. Not even the thick bark of the ancient trees, their boughs twisted with spider silk, could swallow the din of the company’s stumbling, shuffling footfalls.

“Mirkwood,” one of the blindfolded Dwarves had sneered. “It is a fitting name, for evil dwells in this joyless place.”

“It stinks of death,” another had said, his deep voice muffled as if he spoke with a woolen cloak over his mouth.

“Can you not feel that this forest has taken many lives?” the red-haired one had asked. “Perhaps it is them we smell.”

“Rubbish,” the one with a long beard as white as starlight had grumbled. “You and I have stood on many a battlefield, Gloin. The stench of leaves and trees cannot be compared to the reek of a corpse.”

“It is an ill fetor nonetheless,” the one called Fíli had said as he spat upon the ground. “There is a sickness here.”

Tauriel had glared back at him then, wishing to rebuke him for his insolence, but she could not deny what he said. The spiders were but one part of the pestilence that had crept into the Greenwood.

As she moved through the forest now, Tauriel’s mind turned to the mountainside hunts Kíli had told her of. The Dwarves made such a ruckus that she could not understand how they did not frighten the game away. She would ask Kíli when she returned, though she knew he would consider it an affront to all Dwarf-kind.

Though she had once teasingly critiqued his form, she could not deny that it was Kíli’s skill with a bow that had first drawn her gaze to him. He had been unyielding, firing ceaselessly at the spiders pouring down from the trees. She remembered the terrible _snap_ of his splintered bow as he fell atop it.

Tauriel ran her thumb along the elegant grip of her own weapon. She would weep were it ever broken as his had been. She would see to it that it was burned according to custom, with blessings of gratitude and valediction said over it. Kíli’s weapon, she had decided, deserved no less.

It was not difficult to find the place where the Dwarves had been captured; the ground still bore the impressions of their heavy hobnail boots. Half hidden beneath the bloated corpse of a spider, Tauriel saw the bow. The upper limb was split near the grip, the string lying half curled beneath it. It had been carved from a stave of reddish yew and adorned with the knots and patterns his people favored, etched in gold.

Using the dangling string, she tied the bow to her own quiver and turned back toward the Great House. 

<<< >>>

Nellas lived in a shaded cottage not far from where Tauriel had spent the days of her girlhood. The rain had begun to fall harder by the time she arrived there, and her boots and cloak were heavy with moisture. Knowing better than to knock at the door, she pushed it silently open and slipped inside.

She was greeted by a wave of warm, dry air that smelled of wood shavings. Standing before a roaring blaze was Nellas, his dark hair bound in a neat plait down his back. He was singing softly, working at the shaping frame to bend a bow stave into form. He enjoyed the solitude of his work, preferring the company of the trees to that of his kin. More than once, though, Thranduíl had called him the finest bowmaker in Middle Earth. Tauriel believed it.

At last tightening the final screw on the shaping frame, he looked up and smiled. “You are most welcome, Tauriel.”

“Greetings, Nellas,” she replied. “It has been too long.”

“That is has,” he chuckled. “What brings you here?”

“I have something for you to look at.” Releasing the knot the held Kíli’s bow at her back, she presented it to him.

His eyes were drawn immediately to it, appraising, though his hands remained at his sides. He did not take up another’s bow lightly.

“Yew,” he murmured, “from the west. A strong wood and light. Fine workmanship. An honest and humble weapon, but certainly not yours.”

“No,” said Tauriel. “It belongs to a friend.”

“What friend of yours favors Dwarf-made weapons?” he asked, eyeing her slyly.

“A new one,” she replied. She held Nellas’s gaze, challenging him to press her for more. He did not.

Instead, he simply nodded and said, “What is it you wish me to do with this? Alas, it is beyond repair.”

“That I know,” said Tauriel, tracing the line of the break with her fingertips. “I wished you to measure it so that another can be made.” Upon seeing Nellas’s frown, she added, “I know it will not replace this one, but—”

“Your friend is in need,” the bowmaker said, his smile returning. “I will see it done, young Tauriel, but it will take time. And _Mereth en Gillith_ begins on the marrow at nightfall.”

She looked down, unease roiling in the pit of her stomach. It was no surprise that Nellas had guessed the identity of her unnamed acquaintance, but this was not what worried her. The encounter with Legolas that morning had done little to assuage her fear that Thranduíl would refuse to release Thorin Oakenshield and his company.

“It would be a feast day blessing if the king permits them to go free,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but I do not think it is to be.”

Nellas placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Though you never knew them, we shared many centuries of fellowship with Durin’s folk. As their riches grew, Elf, Man, and Dwarf-kind shared in the prosperity…until they found the stone.”

“What stone?” Tauriel asked, brow knit.

“The Arkenstone,” he sighed, moving back toward the hearth. “Some call it the Heart of the Mountain, others the King’s Jewel. It was the finest gem ever unearthed within the mines of Erebor, and none treasured it more than Thrór and those of his line.

“But just as it was said to cast a divine light upon the Dwarven king, it planted a seed of darkness in his heart. His love of riches became too fierce, and a sickness of the mind began to grow within him. And where sickness thrives, shadows converge.”

“Smaug,” said Tauriel.

Nellas nodded. “Indeed. For dragons covet gold with a dark desire beyond even that of Dwarves. The battle was bloody, and many Dwarves were slain.”

“The Greenwood did not come to their aid?”

“The goodwill of King Thranduíl was lost when Thrór refused to part with an ornament that Thranduíl had commissioned. Dwarves smiths are, after all, unmatched.”

Tauriel shook her head. “It cannot be something as trifling as that.”

“It was no ordinary piece,” said Nellas. “A necklace of sparkling silver and diamonds as clear and bright as the stars. Its beauty was unmatched, as was that of she who was to wear it.”

“The queen,” said Tauriel. “I hardly know anything of her, save what Legolas once told me: that she loved the Feast of Starlight.”

“She did,” Nellas said, smiling. “Though she was one of the Sindar, she grew to love the Greenwood and our Silvan customs. It is far darker here since her passing. The necklace was all Thranduíl had left of her, even if she had never worn it.”

“But surely,” said Tauriel, “he could not turn his back on a centuries-old alliance for…for…” _For love_ , she wished to say, but the words stuck in her throat. As she had told Kíli, though Elves did not die of heartbreak, the suffering was immeasurable. She could not imagine the pain Thranduíl had felt when Thrór, in his greed, had refused him the necklace. His loathing for the Dwarves…she could understand it, but Legolas…

“But Thrór is long dead,” she said. “Is it not time to forgive?”

“We cannot know the king’s heart.”

“That is not an answer,” Tauriel said, strident. “With the aid of the Dwarves, we could rid this land of Smaug. Can none but I see that?!”

“Be calm, _henig_!” Nellas snapped. Tauriel glared at him; he had called her “child.”

“There are considerations beyond slaying the dragon,” the bowmaker sighed, softening his tone. “If the Dwarves reclaim the Arkenstone, who is to say the past will not be repeated?”

“You believe Thorin Oakenshield will succumb to the same madness as his grandfather?”

“And his father.”

“Thráin, too, was afflicted?” she asked, brows knit. “But was the Arkenstone not lost with the Mountain?”

“It was,” said Nellas. “Thráin’s sickness was brought on by the death of Thrór at the hands of the White Orc Azog. He could not bear it. It is not unlikely that the blood of Durin runs with madness.”

Tauriel turned away from him, looking instead at the bow she still held. If what Nellas said was true, the lust for gold ran in Kíli’s veins just as it did his uncle Thorin. She swallowed heavily, forced to consider that Legolas and the king were right to keep the company from the Lonely Mountain.

“Yet,” said Nellas, “I could be wrong. Come, Tauriel, it is time to retire this weapon. You know the words, do you not?”

She nodded solemnly. Following him to the hearth, she knelt before the flames.

Nellas squeezed her shoulder. “I will make a fine bow for your friend, no matter his bloodline.”

Giving him a thankful smile, Tauriel drew in a deep breath. As she placed the bow in the fire, she began to sing: “ _Nê! Nê! Boe i `wêdh. Nover! Nover! *Nínion an gurth dhín. Nan ear adh in elin!_ _Agoredh vê. Anthedh vîr mi `uren. De fêl! De fêl!_ _Nover._ ”

In Westron the words were: “Alas! Alas! You must go. Farewell! Farewell! I weep for your death. By the sea and the stars! You did well. I shall treasure your gift in my heart. Thank you! Thank you! Farewell.”

She watched as the yew burned away and the gold ornaments began to melt. As each drop hissed against the coals, Tauriel prayed to the Valar that Kíli would be free of its taint.

<<< >>>

Kíli lay on his back and stared at the roughhewn stone above him, but it was not damp rock that he saw. Instead, it was the starlit sky beyond the peaks of Ered Luin, as he remembered it from his boyhood. He and Fíli had spent many nights sitting in the long grass of the foothills as Thorin—who had all but raised them after their father was slain—recounted the legends of the Gonnhirrim, the great masters of stone that had shaped the halls of Moria and Erebor.  

While Fíli had listened raptly to the stories, asking about to hear more of the kings of old and the lives of Durin’s folk beneath the Mountain, Kíli had been more captivated by the world he knew. The Blue Mountains offered little by way of grandeur or luxury, but as a lad he hadn’t use for either.

In this vision, though, neither Thorin nor Fíli were present. It was her:

_Her hair is a fiery halo around her shoulders. A few strands are caught in the grass near him. Reaching out, he slides his fingers through the silky locks. She laughs as he does it. Her joy is catching, making him smile. He tugs gently, earning him a wry glare. He pulls once more, a little harder. She rolls her eyes, but pushes herself up and over to him._

_“Reckless,” she says against his mouth._

“Do all Dwarves sleep with their eyes open?”

Kíli sat sharply up. He blinked to clear his head, unsure if his eyes could be trusted. But even after the grass and stars faded away, the Elf maid remained. She stood beyond the bars of his cell.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he grumbled, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Oh, weren’t you?” asked Tauriel, wry.

“No,” said Kíli as he got to his feet. “But if I had been, you would’ve rudely awoken me. I should demand an apology.”

She smirked, bowing with false decorum. “And I would gladly give it, Master Dwarf…had you been sleeping. But you were not.”

He shook his head, looking up at her. “Do you delight in pestering prisoners, Lady Elf?”

“There is a certain pleasure in it, yes,” she replied, her eyes alight with amusement. “Though perhaps we should start again.” Placing a hand above her heart, she said formally, “Good evening, Master Kíli.”

“Good evening, Lady Tauriel,” he said, mimicking her. “What brings you to my humble cage tonight?” Her good humor faded somewhat. Brows knit, he took a step closer.

“Tauriel?”

“I must know,” she said, hesitant, “how it is that thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit could hope to slay Smaug and reclaim the Lonely Mountain.”

Kíli felt his stomach clench as though she had struck him. Forcing a bark of laughter, he asked, “Who told you such nonsense? The very notion is ridiculous!”

“It would be,” Tauriel said, her disapproval plain, “were it any other company of Dwarves. But why would the Sons of Durin return if not for Erebor and the Arkenstone?

“Quiet!” Kíli hissed. Reaching through the bars, he clasped her hand and pulled her down until they were both crouched. “What do you know of the Arkenstone?”

“Only that it is the King’s Jewel,” she whispered. “And that it is precious to your uncle, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Kíli glared, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is this what you wanted all along? To hear of the jewel so that you can run and tell the Elvenking?”

“Of course not!” Tauriel snapped. “I have only just learned of it, and I am not Thranduíl’s spy! Everything you have said to me, Kíli, I have kept in confidence.”

“Forgive me,” he sighed, sitting back on his heels. “I should have known better than to doubt you, _my friend_.”

“Yes,” she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You should have, _mellon nin_.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I think you do,” said Tauriel. Crossing her legs, she sat down and peered at him expectantly.

“You won’t go until I’ve answered you,” Kíli grumbled. She shook her head. “Fine, then…

“We have been without a king for as long as I can remember, but I have heard uncounted tales of the splendor of Erebor. Uncle Thorin lived there as a boy. He saw the great halls lit by the forges, our people clothed in the finest silk and fur. The Arkenstone belongs to the King under the Mountain. It is my uncle’s birthright.”

“But the dragon—” Tauriel insisted.

“We did not come to kill Smaug,” said Kíli, cutting her off, “only to burgle him. If Uncle Thorin holds the Arkenstone, he can unite all the Dwarf clans in Middle Earth. With an army, we can reclaim Erebor.”

“Dwarves alone could not defeat Smaug when he first attacked,” said Tauriel. “And that was at the height of your wealth and power. Your uncle cannot succeed without the aid of my people. Would he rather fail than forgive?”

Kíli wished to challenge her, to tell her that she was wrong, that the might of the Dwarves could stand against the dragon. But he could not.

“It is our home,” he said, resigned. “We must try.”

Tauriel smiled sadly, knowingly. “Perhaps there is hope yet. Tomorrow, I will go to the king and speak on your behalf. I do not know that he will hear me, but I, too, must try.”

“Is it true that the he wants only the white gems that were lost?” Kíli asked.

“I cannot know for certain,” she replied, “but he has riches enough. He has never sought more.”

“Do you trust him?”

Tauriel hesitated for a moment before she spoke. “In this, I do.”

“Then I hope that Thorin will reconsider an alliance,” said Kíli, taking one of her slender hands between both of his. “ _Dôlzekh menu_ , Tauriel. Thank you.”

“ _I ‘ell nin_ ,” she replied, squeezing his fingers. “It is my pleasure.”

The touch muddled Kíli’s thoughts, but he managed to say, “Now, can we not speak of brighter things?”

“Yes,” Tauriel said, though she made no move to release his hand.

Content, Kíli began one of his favorite tales: “I saw a fire moon once. It rose over the pass near Dunland. Huge! Red and gold it was, it filled the sky. Fíli and I had were serving as an escort for some merchants from Ered Luin. They were trading in silverwork for furs. We took the Greenway south, keeping the mountain to our left, and then it appeared: this huge fire moon lighting our path! I wish I could show you...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay folks, I’m going to nerd out hard here and explain a couple of things from this chapter to make sure we’re all on the same page in terms of canon. According to the book, the Arkenstone was discovered by Thráin I, grandfather of Thrór, and left within the Lonely Mountain when Thorin I, Thrór’s father, abandoned the kingdom. It was then rediscovered when Thrór re-founded the kingdom. Movie canon, though, casts Thrór as the king when the stone was first unearthed. For the purposes of this fic, we’re going with movie canon on that front. But according to Elrond in An Unexpected Journey, the lust for gold is passed down in Durin’s bloodline. Seeing as Thrór was seemingly doing okay until the discovery of the Arkenstone, that premise is kind of silly (and it’s a total departure from book canon). For this story, I’m going to diverge a little from both: It is the Arkenstone that drives Thrór’s (and thereby Thorin’s) lust for gold, not something inherent in their bloodline. This, of course, means that Thorin’s ability to break free of the spell in The Battle of the Five Armies is a testament to his strength and bond with the company (especially Bilbo, though I have to admit, I don’t ship Bagginshield; please don’t hate me). In any case, I just wanted to clarify this for the plotline down the road because it’s going to be important.
> 
> The Sindarin translations came from http://www.realelvish.net/phrasebooks.php. I’m not an expert by any means, and this site looks legit. If you have any corrections, let me know.
> 
> Thanks again for your awesome comments, follows, and kudos! The Hobbit fandom is full of magical people!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the fabulous irrel, whose Kiliel fanart (and other art, too!) is just amazing! If you haven't seen irrel's stuff, you must check out: http://irrel.tumblr.com/

“There we were,” said Kíli, shaking his head, “all tied up in sacks and piled atop one another, while Bilbo stood at the feet of the trolls and tried to convince them that we were no good to eat.”

“And what did he say?” asked Tauriel, grinning as she sat cross-legged on the landing just beyond the Dwarf’s cell door. She had long ago lost track of the hour, but the occasional snore from the cells above suggested their conversation had stretched far into the night.

“He told them we had worms!” he said.

“Worms?” Tauriel laughed. “He didn’t.”

Kíli grimaced. “Oh, he did. And quick thinking it was, too. Stalled them eating us raw, but never could I have envisaged myself willingly shouting that mine were the biggest parasites.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have witnessed that,” Tauriel chuckled.

“I’m delighted that my humiliation amuses you, Lady Elf,” he grumbled, though good-naturedly. “But the best bit is yet to come. You see, Bilbo managed to buy us time, which was just what we needed, for the sun was rising in the east and sunlight is the best weapon against a troll. As soon as the light crested the hill, the trolls were turned to stone!”

“Truly?” Tauriel asked. “It was not your wizard friend that cast a spell upon them?”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Kíli replied. “Though I cannot say for certain that Gandalf had naught to do with it.”

“And they did not turn back when the sun set that night?”

Kíli shrugged. “We had gone by late morning, but I reckon they’re there still and will be for an age. Perhaps one day I will go back and see for myself.”

“I believe I should like to see them as well,” said Tauriel, smiling at the thought of climbing atop a stone troll to look out over the forest.

“You’ve said the same for every place I’ve told you of,” Kíli chuckled. “The Greenway, Ered Luin, even Bilbo’s Shire. Now the trolls, too?”

She shrugged. “There is much of Middle Earth I would see.”

“As would I,” Kíli said. “Have you gone to the Lonely Mountain?”

Tauriel shook her head. “I have never ventured beyond the borders of the Greenwood.”

Kíli made a face. “Why not?”

“It is the king’s command,” she said, resigned. “If we leave this place, we are never welcomed back into it.”

“That cannot be!” said Kíli, his brows knit. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“I do not pretend to know Thranduíl’s mind,” said Tauriel, scowling.

“Then you are as much as prisoner as we are.” Kíli reached out and laid a hand on her boot. “I would not want to remain in the Blue Mountains for all my life.”

“Will you not stay in Erebor if it can be reclaimed for your people?”

“My uncle will,” he said, “but not me. There is more I want to see before I am a graybeard like Balin.”

“But would you forsake your friends, your home, if you could never return?”

Kíli sighed. “No. Not while Fíli, my uncle, and my mother still lived.”

“You see?” she said. “Nor will I, not while I have my dearest friend—oh.” Her heart tightened as her thoughts turned Legolas. In her anger at him for his callousness that morning, she had allowed herself to put the king’s command from her mind. Shame and grief came rushing back, sending Tauriel scrambling to her feet.

“What’s wrong?” Kíli asked, his concern apparent.

“I must go,” she replied. “I am sorry…but I must.”

The Dwarf gave her a bewildered look as she turned her back on him and sprang up the stairs. With her mind turned to heavier thoughts, the air within the dungeons had suddenly become too damp and close to bear. Rounding the corner, Tauriel sprinted out into the night.

The moon was all but a sliver, but Elves saw well even in the dark. Though she no longer wore the red of a novice, Tauriel still sought out the healers’ garden when she required a quiet place to think. Gathering herbs was a dreaded chore for most novices, but it had allowed Tauriel to let her mind wander without leaving her hands idle. Míriel, the Healer of the House, discouraged idleness.

Crossing under the archway that marked the entrance to the garden, she breathed in the familiar scents in the hope that they would calm her. She had spent many mornings there, picking feverfew for headaches, thyme for cough, and milk thistle for indigestion.

 _It would not be so terrible to return to the House of Healing_ , she thought as she went to a patch of lemon balm—to calm the nerves—and plucked a few leaves. Forsaking her friendship with Legolas would mean leaving the guard as well, for he was an indelible part of it. Míriel, at least, would be pleased if she were to hang up her bow and don the healer’s mantle.

Tauriel crushed the lemon balm leaves in her fist. She would grow restless and bitter confined to the House of Healing, and she that life was not one she could abide. She could not stand by while the darkness in Dol Guldur and the spiders it spawned assaulted the Greenwood.

“Dol Guldur,” she repeated, aloud. Thranduíl had refused to allow her to lead a sortie to the ruined fortress to slay the spiders at their source, but there was nothing to stop her venturing there alone. She could steal away under the cover of darkness during the Feast of Starlight. She would travel by foot, carrying only what she required.

“Coward,” she spat, for it was only cravens and thieves who disappeared without a word in the dead of night. But she could not bring herself to tell Legolas that she could no longer be a friend to him. She would prefer he thought her a deserter. He would hate her either way.

Tauriel closed her eyes tight, trying in vain to blink back tears. Unbidden, the memory of another day she wept in the garden came to mind. She had been preparing to enter her second year as a novice then, and it was Míriel that had found her sitting amongst the herbs:

_“What troubles you, child?” asked the Healer, her brow furrowed._

_"Nothing, my lady,” said Tauriel, wiping her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “It was the onions making my eyes run.”_

_"Nonsense,” said Míriel. “The onions are three rows over, as you well know, Tauriel.”_

_"Yes, my lady,” she sniffled. “I am sorry, my lady.”_

_The Healer looked down her nose at her. “Don’t apologize. Take some of that in front of you and come inside with me.”_

_Tauriel cut a sprig from the plant nearest her and rose to follow_ _Míriel into the milling room. Filling a pot with water from the spout of the fountain, she hung it over the fire._

_"Bring the leaves here,” she said, holding out her hand. Once Tauriel had placed the sprig into it, Míriel deftly stripped the leaves away, crushed them between her fingers, and dropped them into the water. She stirred it in silence until it began to steam and then ladled some into a clay cup._

_"Lemon balm tea,” she said, pushing the cup into Tauriel’s hands. “It will steady your temper.”_

_Tauriel sipped at it mutely as the Healer looked on. As she drank it down, the pain in her heart grew duller._

_"Feeling better?”_

_"Yes, my lady. Thank you for the tea.”_

_Míriel smiled. “You are most welcome. Now, tell me what upset you.”_

_"My mother and father,” Tauriel said, looking down at her reflection in the tea. “They died a year ago today.”_

_"You poor child,” said Míriel, sinking down onto a stool nearby. “There is no harm in lamenting for them. Why did you wish to conceal it from me?”_

_"‘A healer does not succumb to the suffering of others,’” Tauriel said, repeating the words of_ Healer’s Hands _, a song all the novices learned by heart. “‘A healer does not wail in the face of pain.’”_

 _"But that is not what it means at all,” said Míriel. “You must always remember how it begins: ‘_ At bedside _…a healer does not succumb, does not wail.’ It means that you must keep your head when you are attending to others’ wounds. But when you are sorrowful, you need not hide it. You_ must _grieve.” She stood slowly, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her gown. “You may be excused from the rest of your duties today if you wish it.”_

_Tauriel shook her head. “‘Idle shall the Healer’s Hands n’er be,’” she quoted, giving Míriel a hesitant smile. “Though, may I stay in the garden?”_

_"Of course,” said the Healer of the House, squeezing Tauriel’s shoulder as she disappeared inside._   

Breathing in the scent of the lemon balm leaves, Tauriel allowed her tears to fall. And there she stayed until dawn on the day of the Feast of Starlight, her last day in the Greenwood.

 <<< >>>

For the second time in as many days, Tauriel stood before the throne of the Elvenking. The audience chamber was dim despite the morning sun, and Thranduíl’s face was shadowed.

“Come closer, Tauriel,” he said, gesturing with the cup he held. It was not yet past midday, but he was already well into the honeyed feast day wine. “What brings you here?”

She swallowed, though it did little to ease the words from her mouth. After leaving the healers’ garden at first light, she had gone to her chambers. Pleas, demands, entreaties; they had all passed through her mind as she had splashed water over her face, hoping to find something that might convince the king to release the Dwarves according to her promise to Kíli. She was neither diplomat nor balladeer, though; guardsmen and healers had little use for rhetoric. As she dressed, she resigned herself to speaking simply and honestly, despite knowing she would in all likelihood fail.

“My lord,” she said at last, “I would ask you to release Thorin Oakenshield and his company.”

There was silence for three full beats of Tauriel’s heart, and then the ring of a chalice striking wood. She had steeled herself for all manner of reactions: fury, amusement, mockery, but she did not expect curiosity.

“To what purpose?” asked Thranduíl, his head cocked just slightly to the side.

“So that they might complete their journey,” she replied. “To…the Lonely Mountain.”

The king rested his chin in his hand. “And how did you divine that that is their purpose?”

“I asked them,” she lied, having been told by Legolas.

“I see,” said Thranduíl, steepling his fingers. “Perhaps I have forgotten, but were you not instructed to attend your duties and leave the Dwarves to me?”

Tauriel narrowed her eyes, a spark of anger igniting within her. “I did not think I had neglected my duties as captain of the guard, my lord. Our patrols have been ridding the Greenwood of spiders, and we have not ventured beyond your borders. I have been teaching Ingwion of battlefield healing, and he is doing well enough. My blades are sharp and well-oiled, my bowstring taut. What have I left undone, my lord?”

“Nothing at all,” Thranduíl said, rising and beginning an unhurried descent from his seat “In that you have obeyed me well. Yet, you have flouted my other commands, as though I gave you a choice in the matter.”

Tauriel held her ground as he approached her.

“You defy me by continuing to keep company with my son,” he snapped, all gentleness gone from his voice, “and now you bring me this request to free _my_ prisoners. Thorin Oakenshield is not your concern.”

Sinking to one knee, Tauriel dropped her gaze to the floor. “My lord, I will do as you have bid me. But…what harm could there be in allowing the Dwarves to go free? You do not actually believe they can succeed in taking back the Mountain. Would it not be simple enough to send them on to a fiery end?” The words tasted foul on her tongue, but perhaps the king could be moved to send the company into what he believed was certain death. (No matter how dearly she wished it otherwise!)

“Do not speak of what you do not know!” said Thranduíl. “Waking the dragon will bring unimaginable wrath and ruin upon these lands. I have faced the great serpents of the north. You know nothing of dragon fire!” Turning from her, he stalked away. “I deny you your request. Go. Now.”

“As the king commands,” she said, rising.

“And Tauriel,” said Thranduíl, before she had reached the door. “I expect my son will wish you to accompany him to the feast tonight. I will indulge him this last time, but say to him what you must by morning.”

With a stiff nod, she left the audience chamber behind her, cursing the obduracy of kings. If Thorin Oakenshield would not accept Thranduíl’s terms, as Kíli had suggested, he and his company would spend a hundred years or more in the dungeons. It was a mere blink in the long life of an Elf, but not in that of a Dwarf. They were not meant to be imprisoned any more than Tauriel was to be corralled within the borders of the Greenwood. If she could choose exile, then why should the Dwarves not go free as well?

She had decided to slip out from the wine cellars and follow the Forest River to Esgaroth and then beyond the Mountains of Mirkwood. She would follow the eastern border of the Greenwood until it swung west to Dol Guldur. It was a long route, but she dared not take the Old Forest Road for fear of being caught by the guard. It would not be impossible to help the Dwarves to escape along the same road. In fact, it would draw the guard away from her—

“ _Dhe suilon_ , Tauriel,” said Legolas, interrupting her thoughts. He stood just outside the door to her chambers, a woolen bundle in his arms. Meeting him should perhaps have brought back the sorrow of the previous night, but Tauriel was glad instead. If this was to be her last day with him, she would enjoy it. Hiding a smile, she forced her face into a disapproving frown.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’ve come to beg your pardon,” he replied. “I am ashamed of having spoken so cruelly to you yesterday.”

She crossed her arms over her breast. “As well you should be.”

“Tauriel, please,” he said, taking her by the arm and guiding her into her chambers. “You are so dear to me, I cannot bear to quarrel any longer. Come, I have a gift for you.”

“You do not need to bribe me, Legolas,” she said, softening her tone as she allowed him to lead her to her bed, where he laid the bundle.

“I was not so sure,” he teased, winking, “so I thought I’d best come prepared. Open it.”

Though she gave him a wry look, she did as he asked. Unfolding the plain gray wool, she drew in her breath. Inside was a gown of pearl-white silk. It was embroidered with thread of pure silver so that it reflected the firelight.

“This is… I cannot wear something so fine.”

“It is only one night, _mellon nin_ ,” Legolas said, smiling warmly. “It suits you.”

Touching the soft fabric, she said, “Thank you. Truly, _mellon_ , it is lovely.”

“I am forgiven, then?” he asked as he took her hand. “And you will accompany me to the feast?”

Tauriel sighed, looking between the gown and her friend. “Of course. And I would have had you not brought me this.”

“I know,” he said. “But I wished you to have it. In it you will shine even brighter than the stars.” Smiling, he pressed her knuckles to his lips.

“Shining or dull, I will still slay more spiders today than you,” she said, laughing.

“I wager my finest cloak against that,” Legolas said.

Putting everything but her patrol and her friend’s company from her mind, Tauriel replied, “Done.”

 <<< >>>

Both Legolas and Tauriel were spattered with the dark spiders’ blood as they led the guardsmen back to the barracks at dusk. And Tauriel was one cloak richer.

“This plague grows worse by the day,” said Legolas, wiping black gore from his armor.

Tauriel nodded, though she remained silent.

“Spiders, Dwarves,” the prince continued. “What will infest the forest next? Goblins?”

“Ours are the biggest parasites,” Tauriel muttered under her breath.

Legolas raised a brow. “What’s gotten into you today? You’re acting strangely.”

“I’m filthy and hungry,” she replied. As they approached the Great House, the lightness of spirit she had felt earlier began to wane, and fear began to creep into her heart. She was preparing to turn her back on her own people. Even if she believed it to be right, it was treason.

“You should be glad, then,” said Legolas, putting an arm around her shoulder, “that I sent Ingwion ahead to request a hot bath be drawn for you in your chambers. Shall I send for a plate of cheese as well?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she laughed. “There will be food enough at the feast.”

“Then bathe quickly,” he said. “I’m hungry as well.”

Tauriel nodded and watched as her friend, grinning, set off toward his chambers. She was not far from her own and was pleased to see a copper tub filled with steaming water sitting near the hearth.

She disrobed hastily, taking the most time to unstring her bow and wipe her blades clean. Before she stepped into the bath, though, she drew a handful of half-dried lemon balm leaves from her healer’s satchel and dropped them into the water.

She soaked for a fair while longer than she would have in the springs below the dungeons, taking care to scrub under her fingernails and wash her hair. When the water finally grew cold, Tauriel shrugged a robe over her shoulders and began to comb out the knots in her hair. She followed that with one hundred stokes with a horsehair brush, until it was dry and silky.

Reluctantly she approached Legolas’s gift where it lay on the bed. Slipping out of her robe, she lifted the white gown over her head and let it drop. The sleeves were layered, the inner long and fitted and the outer slashed so that they fell open at her elbows.

The neckline—embroidered with delicate starbursts—was wide, its edges resting against the curves of her shoulders. The skirt fell just to the tops of her feet at the front, but was cut long for the train behind her.

Wrapped in another length of wool was a pair of satin slippers more delicate than any she had ever worn. She slid her feet into them and tied the ribbons at her ankles. Unaccustomed to such finery, she walked a circle around the room to make sure she would not slip and embarrass herself.

As she passed the bedside table, she caught sight of the plain wooden box that had once belonged to her mother. Releasing the catch, she gently raised the lid. Within, nestled in black velvet, was a circlet fashioned from an unfamiliar metal. It was white as pearl, but far stronger than any silver or gold. Set in the center, which would rest on Tauriel’s brow, was a flawless diamond the size of her thumbnail. She had had no occasion to wear it before, but taking it from the box, she set it upon her head and secured it with four small braids.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Tauriel said.

Legolas appeared at the threshold. He looked Tauriel over, his smile widening as he did. “You are radiant.”

She returned his smile. “As you are, _mellon_.” His robes were silver, as was the circlet upon his brow. Tauriel accept his proffered arm and said, “Let’s to the feast.”

The great hall was ringing with mirth and merriment when they arrived. Torches burned bright in the sconces and the flames of several hundred candles flickered atop food-laden tables. A harpist and fiddler played merrily for those dancing quadrilles.

Tauriel felt many gazes fall on her as she and Legolas entered, though she was surprised to see that most were kind and accompanied by smiles. Though she knew her people saw her place at the prince’s right arm as a public declaration of their affection, she no longer cared. They could think what they wished. It would make no matter once she was gone.

“Will you have some wine?” Legolas asked, offering her a glass.

Tauriel took it and touched it to his. “May the stars shine upon your path,” she said.

Customarily, he should have replied with, “And upon yours,” but instead he said, loud enough to be heard by those at the surrounding tables, “Then let us share their light, for I would share my path with you.”

Tauriel quickly hid her expression in her chalice, drinking deeply. A few murmurs could be heard from behind her. The word would travel quickly, for the ears of Elves were keen.

“Shall we sit?” she asked, lifting her chin and striding toward the high table. King Thranduíl was deep in conversation with the swordsmith as they approached, but he turned when he caught sight of them, his gaze falling immediately upon Tauriel’s circlet. She met his eyes, unwilling to be the first to look away.

Thranduíl turned to Legolas and raised his chalice. “Good evening, my son. May the light of the stars shine upon your path.”

“And upon yours, father,” he replied.

The hall had stilled around them.

“And good evening to you, Tauriel,” said Thranduíl, his cordiality laced with venom. “It seems we haven’t need of the stars above, for you have captured one and wear it upon your brow. It is a delight to look upon.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you come by it?”

“My mother wore it before me,” Tauriel said. “I do not know when or from whom she acquired it.”

“How could you?” said Thranduíl, taking a sip of wine. “I have not seen the _mithril_ in an age.”

“It cannot be,” said Legolas. “I thought _mithril_ a legend.”

“It is real enough,” said Thranduíl. “Though far more precious than any common ore. It can be beaten like copper and polished until it shines like glass, but only the Dwarves of Erebor could shape it into a metal lighter and yet harder than steel. And the beauty of _mithril_ does not tarnish or succumb to the dimness of age. You wear a king’s ransom upon your head, Tauriel.”

Reaching up to touch the pearly metal, Tauriel asked, “How could a guard of a Greenwood have come to own such a treasure?”

Thranduíl shrugged dismissively. “That was her secret to keep, I suppose. Now, enough chatter. The food grows cold and my cup empty. Bring the next course!”

Taking her seat beside Legolas, Tauriel ate and drank without tasting anything. She could remember almost nothing about her mother’s circlet, which vexed and distracted her more than she would have liked. It was no small task conversing with Legolas while keeping her eye on Beleg, the keeper of the keys, as he drank cup after cup of sweet red. It could not be much longer until he got up to relieve himself, and it was then that she could strike.

It wasn’t until three courses later that he finally got to his feet.

“Off to feed the Dwarven dogs,” Beleg slurred, his tongue made thick by drink. “And curses be upon them.” Weaving a crooked line across the hall, he disappeared. Tauriel waited a few moments, took a deep drink of her own wine, and then turned to Legolas.

“I feel quite hazy,” she said. “A walk and some air would do me good.”

“I’ll join you,” he said, smiling. The wine had made him giddy, and were it a different feast Tauriel would have teased him. Instead, she simply shook her head.

“I’ll be only a moment.”

“All right,” he said, kissing her knuckles. “Don’t be long.”

Tauriel forced a smile and, freeing her fingers, made her way out of the hall. She was met with a great sense of relief as she crossed into the cool passage outside, though her heart began to pound.

“Valar forgive me,” she whispered as she strode toward the dungeons.

She caught Beleg just as he was leaving the kitchens, a heavy pot of stew in his right hand and a stack of wooden bowls balanced precariously in his left. Listing unsteadily, he nearly dropped the lot. Tauriel caught the bowls, relieving him of the ring of keys at his hip as she did it.

“Thank you,” he muttered, though he scowled as he recognized her. “Oh. It’s you.”

“I am not here to argue with you,” Tauriel said. “In fact, I have come to help. The sooner we have done with this, the sooner we may return to the feast.”

He gave her an incredulous look, his eyes unfocused. “You are right about that, if nothing else.”

Tauriel did all she could not to snap at him, gently taking the stack of bowls from his hand. “I will carry these. Ah, I see you have forgotten spoons. Will you fetch them?”

“Right, right,” he said, shambling back into the kitchens.

His errand bought Tauriel just enough time to conceal the keys in the folds of her skirt and tie them there with a quick knot.

When Beleg reappeared, she flashed him a smile. “Why do you not leave this work to me? I can manage well enough alone. Go back to feast. I will tell no one.”

He considered for a moment, but then set the stew pot down. “I’ll hold you to your word.”

Tauriel nodded. “Upon my honor.”

Once the sound of Beleg’s footsteps has faded, she lifted the skirts of her gown and hastened down the steps into the dungeons.

Thorin Oakenshield regarded her with mistrust as she arrived at his cell. “What business have you here?” he growled. “Where is the keeper of the keys?”

“Sleeping, I hope,” she said. “Else he will find himself quite sick come morning.”

“Can’t hold his drink,” Oakenshield scoffed.

“No, he cannot,” said Tauriel, scowling down at the Dwarf. “Tell me, now that you have enjoyed three days of King Thranduíl’s hospitality, will you reconsider his offer?”

“I would die in this cell first!” he snapped.

“And so will all of those in your company!” Tauriel cried, fury burning in her breast. He was no less stubborn that the Elvenking. “Your nephews! Your own kin! How could you betray them for the sake of your own pride?”

“You dare call me betrayer! There is no honor in all of Mirkwood. I will never trust your kind with the life of any Dwarf!”

“That choice is yours to make,” Tauriel said, drawing herself up to her full height, “but I hope that one day you will change your mind. Have strength, Thorin, son of Thrain.”

He barked a laugh. “Strength for what?”

“Whatever may come.”

As she descended to the cell below, Tauriel heard the white-bearded Dwarf calling to her.

“My lady Elf,” he said as she stopped to hear him. “My name is Balin, son of Fundin, and I wish to thank you. You have been kind to us. That is not something a Dwarf forgets.”

“It is my pleasure to know you, Balin,” said Tauriel. “I wish we had met under…” she looked up at Oakenshield’s cell “…different circumstances.”

“Do not think too badly of Thorin,” Balin sighed. “He has seen many wrongs done to our people, and with or without a crown on his head, he holds himself accountable.”

“For fear of repeating the missteps of his grandfather, he is making even greater ones here. Can he not see that?”

“We are all blind to some things.” He smiled slyly under his beard. “Others we see with great clarity. Young Kíli will not be like to take his eyes off of you this night. You look very bonny, my lady.”

Tauriel looked down. “Thank you.”

“Best go now,” said Balin, “before you are missed at your fine feast.”

“Goodnight,” said Tauriel. “It has been an honor.”

Bilbo bowed quite formally as Tauriel approached. “Fair lady, you sounded terribly final a moment ago. I know a goodbye when I hear one.”

“That was not my intent,” she lied. “Though I hope that when you do go away from here that it will not be the last goodbye. I should very much like to see your Shire.”

“I promise you,” said Bilbo, laying a hand over his heart, “that if we escape from here and I—by some miracle— _survive_ this journey, you are always welcome at Bag End.”

Tauriel smiled and nodded. “May the Valar always light your path, dear Bilbo. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lady Tauriel.”

Tauriel felt sorrow clench at her as she descended the stairs to the lowermost cell.

Kíli was leaning against the gate, chewing at the nails of one hand while looking down at the other. “Is it time for my stale…bread…” His words trailed off as he looked Tauriel over.

Echoing words Legolas had once uttered, she asked, “Why do you stare at me?”

Standing as tall as he could, he replied, “What else can I do? Not even the brightest star in the sky could draw my gaze when there is such beauty to behold.” He held out an open hand, inviting.

In a single long stride, Tauriel crossed the distance between them. Sinking to her knees, she released the knot in her skirts that held the key ring. She pressed it into Kíli’s fingers.

“You must go,” she said, her words quiet. “My people’s eyes are dulled by drink and merriment. And you have the cover of darkness.”

Kíli looked down at the keys, and then up to her face. “You would set us free?”

“I would see you complete your quest. Rid this land of the dragon and reclaim your home.”

 “Come with us!” he said, his face alight.

She shook her head. “You know I cannot.” Taking the keys from him, she slid one into the lock and swung open the gate. “Find the barrels in the cellar and you will have your way out. Follow the river east until you reach Esgaroth. I dearly hope that the Men of Lake Town will welcome you more warmly than my people.”

Catching her hand, Kíli squeezed it tight. “We will not forget this. I will not forget you.”

“Nor I you,” she said, turning away from him. “Now go!”

“We will meet again, Tauriel.”

She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “I know.” Taking the stairs two at a time, she sprinted up.

“ _Faro vê_ ,” she said as she went past Oakenshield’s cell. _Good hunting._

Hurrying through the passages back toward the great hall, Tauriel considered her next actions with care. The feast would continue until nearly morning, providing the Dwarves with time enough to make it to the lake. She herself would return to the hall for a time, perhaps even dance once or twice with Legolas and the guardsmen before bidding them goodnight.

_And farewell._

A change of clothes, the fine traveling cloak she had won from Legolas, her satchel, and her weapons waited in her room. She would be halfway down the river by sunrise, bound for Dol Guldur.

Then, from the silence, the piercing sound of a lookout’s horn rang out.

“No,” said Tauriel. “It cannot be the company.” She turned at the sound of her name in time to see Legolas round the corner at a full run.

“Orcs!” he cried. “Orcs have been sighted on the Old Forest Road!”

Wide-eyed, Tauriel sent a prayer of thanks to the Valar: _Guide and guard Kíli and his kin until their quest is at an end_.

Putting her own leave-taking from her thoughts, Tauriel cried, “Guard of the Greenwood to arms! To arms!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a playlist for this fic here: http://gefionne.tumblr.com/post/110029972945/gefionne-innikh-de-return-to-me-songs-from and you can listen on 8tracks: http://8tracks.com/gefionne/innikh-de-return-to-me-a-kiliel-playlist


	7. Chapter 7

“Where’s Tauriel gone in such a hurry?” asked Bilbo after the Elf maid had gone past him, skirts flying.

“Quiet!” Kíli hissed as he crept up to the Halfling’s cell door. “She’s sprung us loose, and we have to go. Now.” Sliding the heavy iron key into the lock, he swung the door open. Bilbo stood motionless and open-mouthed.

“Run ahead and tell the others to make ready,” said Kíli. “I’ll follow with the keys.”

Nodding mutely, Bilbo hurried out of his cell and up the stairs. A few moments later, Kíli followed.

“Brother!” said Fíli when Kíli had released him. They embraced, laughing. “It’s good to see your face again. Is it your Elf maid we have to thank for our freedom?”

“Yes,” Kíli replied, though he knew he could not claim her as _his_ Elf maid. “And we can’t waste any time.”

Fíli nodded. “Where must we go?”

“There is a wine cellar below,” said Kíli. “Barrels will mark our path.”

“I’ll have a look,” said Fíli, though he paused for a moment and waggled his eyebrows. “When you saw the Elf in her fine frock, did you blush?”

Kíli gave him a hard shove. “Barrels. Find them!” Leaving his chuckling brother behind, he hastened up to the next cell.

“Follow Fíli downstairs,” he told Ori. He said the same to Nori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and Dori. Oin, Gloin, and Dwalin came after, the latter giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder in thanks.

“So it’s true, then!” said Balin when Kíli arrived at his cell door. “Lady Tauriel has let us go.  I can scarcely believe it. Make haste, young Kíli! We cannot squander this opportunity.” After Balin had gone, the only remaining cell was that of his uncle Thorin. He and Bilbo were conversing quietly as Kíli approached.

“How can you think it a trap?” the Hobbit asked. “Lady Tauriel was only ever good to us.”

“You mean well, Bilbo,” said Thorin, his face softening, “but you know little of the treachery of Elves.”

Kíli frowned at that. “Uncle,” he said. “We must go.”

“Lead on then, Kíli,” said Thorin. “Let us leave this cursed place.”

They wound their way down the narrow stairs. At the bottom lay a richly appointed wine cellar. Fíli and the others were gathered around a number of large barrels, arguing.

“I don’t believe it,” said Dwalin. “We’re in the cellars!”

“We’re supposed to be going out,” said Nori. “Not further in!”

“That Elf witch tricked us!” Gloin growled.

“Maybe there’s something behind these bottles,” Dori suggested, picking one up. Bofur quickly took it and looked it over.

“Fine vintage,” he said, tucking the bottle into his belt. “Say what you want about these Elven fiends, but they have excellent taste in wine.” At Balin’s glare, he shrugged. “There’s no harm in having one for the road.”

“Enough!” Thorin snapped. “There must be a door somewhere. Make yourselves of use and find it.”

The company scattered, each Dwarf looking in a different dusty nook. Kíli himself was investigating the inside of a barrel when the lot of them shuddered beneath him.

“Sorry!” cried Bilbo. Then quieter: “Sorry. I believe I touched this lever.” It was taller than he was and ornately carved from a dark wood.

“Seems it’s a mechanism of some sort,” said Balin, leaning over to investigate.

“Quiet!” Kíli said, lowering himself to the wooden floor. “Listen. Do you hear that roar?” His companions fell silent, each straining his ears.

“What is it?” asked Oin, his ear trumpet pressed against the boards. “I don’t hear a thing.”

“Water,” said Fíli. “And moving fast.”

Thorin said, “The Forest River. It must flow right beneath here.”

“We’re to follow the river east,” said Kíli. “To Esgaroth”

Balin nodded. “The boy’s right. The Forest River leads straight to the Long Lake at the foot of the Lonely Mountain.”

“But if there’s naught but water beneath us…” said Ori, shuddering. “Lady Tauriel could not have meant for us to swim!”

Kíli swallowed heavily. Though Dwarf-kind could swim if the need arose, it was not something they did willingly.

“Well, I should say those barrels will float,” said Bilbo, his thumbs hooked beneath his suspenders. When he was met with bewildered looks, he sighed and explained, “Traders float barrels up and down the Brandywine River back home in the Shire. They travel up with full barrels by cart, but it’s far easier to simply float the empty ones back downstream.”

“Are you suggesting we ride a river atop _barrels_?” Gloin demanded.

“Well, not on top of them,” said Bilbo, scratching his chin. “In them.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Bofur. “We’ll be bruised and battered to pieces!”

“And drowned too, for certain!” said Bombur.

“Do you have a better idea?” Kíli snapped. “If not, you best run along back to your cells because this is our only chance.”

“Do as the burglar says,” said Thorin, though his complexion was pale. He was no stronger a swimmer than the rest of them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Fíli to Bilbo, as he crawled into one of the barrels. Kíli followed suit. It was a tight fit and dark within, but he managed to wedge himself in. Only Bilbo remained outside, his hand at the lever.

“What do we do now?” asked Bofur, peeking his head out from his barrel.

“Hold your breath,” the Hobbit replied.

Kíli pressed himself against the sides of his barrel as the floor beneath him pitched forward. There was a brief pause and he began to roll, then fall. His yell was lost in the deafening roar of the river as he and his barrel plunged into the icy water, knocking the breath from his lungs.

When he broke the surface again, gasping for air, he was waist-deep in water, bobbing along the river as it hurtled away from Mirkwood. There was no moon that night, but the stars shed a little light. Ahead of him Kíli could see Fíli’s sodden yellow hair. Behind him was Bilbo, sputtering and breathless, but alive and in a barrel of his own.

“Well done, Master Baggins!” Kíli called. Bilbo waved once and let his hand fall limply against the lip of his barrel. At last, they were free again and bound for the Mountain!

 _Farewell, Tauriel_ , Kíli thought, casting a last glance back at the Great House of the Elvenking. He hoped that she had spoken true, that her people’s revelry would keep them from pursuing the Dwarves. He wondered what awaited Tauriel when she returned to the feast. Would she dance and make merry as though naught had happened? Come morning, would she look to the Mountain and think of him? His chest tightened. If the Elvenking discovered that she had helped their company escape, surely his wrath would descend upon her without mercy. Closing his eyes, he called upon Mahal and his ancestors to watch over her and keep her safe. _And should I survive this quest, let us meet again under brighter skies._

The whine of an Elven horn pierced the air, sending a cold stab through Kíli’s heart. Looking ahead about a hundred paces, he spotted a towering stone archway. Three Elven guards, each bearing a torch, were scrambling across it, and a fourth was sounding the alarm. The blast was cut short, though, as a thick, black arrow struck the guard in the neck. He fell dead into the water below.

“They’ve closed the gate!” Thorin called. “We’re trapped!”

“Orcs!” cried Fíli. “Mind your heads, lads.”

Kíli watched as a pack of hideous Orcs charged onto the banks around them. Cursing, he cast his gaze around, searching for a weapon. What he saw, though, was better: a lever, not unlike the one in the cellar, holding the portcullis closed.

Springing up, Kíli grabbed hold of the moss-covered stones on the bank and pulled himself from his barrel. Dodging the black iron blade an Orc swung at him, he scrambled up toward the lever. The sounds of battle grew louder as the Dwarves below tried to fend off their attackers. Unarmed, they would not last long.

Rolling to avoid another Orc’s weapon, Kíli got to his feet and took a few loping strides ahead. Suddenly, pain exploded in his right thigh, blackening his vision. He heard Fíli calling his name, but his voice was muffled and far away. Grimacing, Kíli forced himself to take another step. He cried out in pain as he stumbled, falling hard onto his back.

Above him was another Orc, but before the vile creature could attack, an arrow struck it in the shoulder. Kíli turned, his wet hair sticking to his cheeks, to see Tauriel pulling another bolt from the quiver at her back.

As the Orcs called for her blood, brush behind her burst into flames. A hail of arrows, their tips burning, came from the forest beyond. The Elves appeared a moment later, their wicked, curved blades flashing in the firelight.

Forcing himself up onto his knees, Kíli managed to get his arms around the lever at last. Throwing his full weight against it, he released the counterweight and heard the portcullis begin to rise.

“Kíli, come on!” Fíli called.

With a groan, he rolled off of the ledge and into the barrel his brother held for him. As he dropped into it, the black arrow snapped against the side. Kíli doubled over in pain as he was rushed down a sluice into the open river.

<<< >>>

“Who raised the alarm?” Tauriel demanded as she strode out of the barracks. At her side was Legolas, and her guardsmen followed closely behind. She had exchanged her white gown for her familiar leathers and the green of the guard.

“The eastern watch,” Legolas replied, slinging a full quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

“They’ll have made for the river gate then,” said Tauriel. “The narrow crossing will force the Orcs into a bottleneck. They should be able to hold them off until we arrive.”

Legolas raised his bow and cried, “To the river gate!”

Tauriel led the charge through the forest, her long legs carrying her swiftly over the gnarled roots and decaying leaves. It was not long before she heard shouting over the noise of the river. But to her dismay, it was not only the black speech of the Orcs she heard, but the gruff calls of the Dwarves. Her heart jumped into her throat as she heard an agonized cry of “Kíli!”

Nocking an arrow, she charged out of the brush ahead of the others. Through the chaos of battle that she beheld, she managed to find him. Kíli was lying prone on the opposite bank, an arrow stuck in the flesh of his leg.

Tauriel saw a flash of movement above him, and a moment later she heard the _thunk_ of her arrow as it found its mark. Kíli turned, his eyes widening as he recognized her. Legolas called to her from the forest, warning her of the flames he was about to unleash. Tauriel turned to attack another foe, and by the time she had turned back, Kíli was gone. Both he and his brother were disappearing around a bend in the river ahead.

“Forget the Elves!” one of the Orcs bellowed. “Get the Dwarf scum!”

“After them!” Tauriel cried. “Don’t let the Orc filth get away.” Leaping from the rock she stood upon, she caught the neck of one of the Orcs, sending them both tumbling down a small outcropping. As she hit the ground, Tauriel reached for her blades.

“Don’t move, or I’ll slash your throat,” she snarled as she held the edges of the knives at the Orc’s neck.

“She-Elf slag!” it cursed, blood-blackened spittle foaming at the corners of its mouth.

“Guard your tongue, _Orch_ ,” said Legolas, sliding down the embankment, “if you wish to keep it.”

“You hunt a company of thirteen Dwarves in the realm of the Elvenking,” said Tauriel. “Why?”

“Not thirteen,” the evil creature spat. “Not anymore.”

Tauriel caught her breath. “One has fallen?”

“Not yet,” said the Orc, “but he doesn’t have long. We stuck him with a Morgul shaft. The poison’s in his blood, and he’ll be choking on it soon.”

“The life of one Dwarf makes no matter to us,” Legolas snarled. “What do you want with them? Answer the question, filth!”

“I’ll die first,” the Orc laughed.

“Yes,” said Tauriel, tightening her grip on his neck. “You will.”

“Tauriel, stop!” Legolas cried. “There is more it can tell us. We’ll take it to my father.” Calling for the guard, he ordered them to bind the Orc and see that it was delivered to Thranduíl.

Tauriel watched the guardsmen fade into the forest, but her feet stayed rooted to the spot. In the east, the stars we beginning to fade as the sky lightened. It would soon be morning.

Legolas called to her. “Come, Tauriel.”

“How can we allow them to go free?” she asked. “They will ravage the land wherever they go.”

“They are gone from here. We have done our duty and protected the Greenwood.”

“The king has never before let Orc filth trespass in his kingdom and escape with their lives, and yet he lets this pack cross our borders and kill our prisoners.”

“It matters not whether Thorin Oakenshield dies by dragon fire or Orcish blade,” said Legolas. “His is not our fight.”

“It _is_ our fight,” Tauriel replied. “The Orcs, the plague of spiders, this sickness that has befallen the Greenwood will not end here. With every one of their victories, the evil will grow. If your father has his way, we will do nothing. We would hide behind our walls, live our lives away from the light, and let darkness descend. Your father would hide, but I would fight!”

Legolas looked at her with wide eyes. “You are the captain of the guard of the Greenwood. It is your sworn duty to obey the king. If you forsake that oath, Tauriel, you betray your people.”

“I do this for my home, for my people! Are we not part of this world, Legolas? Will you stand by and allow evil to become stronger than us?”

“You cannot track thirty Orcs by yourself,” he said. “Come back with me now. Your place is here.”

Tauriel shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Why?” Legolas demanded. “Is it him, the black-haired Dwarf? Is he worth so much to you that you would choose exile?”

“It is far more than that,” said Tauriel, scowling. “Though if it is in my power to save him, I must.”

“You wish for them to succeed,” Legolas scoffed.

“And you do not? The death of Smaug would be a boon for us all.”

“Then stay because I ask it of you,” said Legolas, crossing the distance between them in three long strides. “ _De velethril e-guil nîn_.” In the common tongue it meant, “You are the love of my life.”

Tauriel gently moved his hands away from her face. “I am sorry, Legolas. You are my dearest friend, but I cannot give you my heart.”

The prince turned away. “Go then,” he said as he disappeared into the forest, “and meet your fate.”

“May your ways be always green and golden, my friend,” said Tauriel. Casting a last glance at the trees, she set off along the riverbank, south and east toward the lake.

<<< >>>

“If I never see another river in my life, it will be too soon,” grumbled Gloin, kicking at the battered barrel that had borne him to the rocky shore of Esgaroth.

“Kíli, Fíli,” said Thorin as he pulled himself free of the water. “Your eyes are sharpest. Do you see anything behind us?”

“No,” Fíli said. “I think we’ve outrun the Orcs.”

“Not for long, I fear,” said Balin as he wrung the water from his beard. “We must not tarry here.”

“Where will we go?” asked Bofur.

“To the Mountain,” Bilbo replied. “We’re close. I saw it from the treetops of Mirkwood.”

“A lake lies between us and the Mountain,” said Dori. “And we have no way to cross it.”

Bilbo blew a drop of water from the tip of his nose. “So, then we go ‘round.”

“The Orcs will run us down, sure as daylight,” said Dwalin. “We’ve no weapons to defend ourselves.”

“Or food,” Bombur said.

“Tauriel spoke of a place called Lake Town,” said Kíli, wincing as he rid himself of the barrel and get to shore. “It must be nearby. We have some gold yet. Could we not buy supplies there?”

Thorin shook his head. “The Men of the lake have not seen a Dwarf since my father and grandfather led our people from the Mountain. They will talk if we go to Lake Town, and we can ill afford to bring the Orcs or the Elves down upon us again. We must make haste, for tomorrow begins the last days of autumn.”

“Durin’s Day falls the morn after next,” said Balin. “We must reach the Mountain before then.”

“And if we do not?” asked Kíli. “If we fail to find the hidden door before that time…”

“Then this quest has been for nothing,” Fíli said, his expression dark.

Kíli cursed as pain stabbed through his leg. He slowly lowered himself to the rock below.

“He’s wounded,” said Oin, pushing past Dori and Bifur. “Let me tend to it.”

“I’m fine,” said Kíli. “It’s nothing.”

“Bind his leg,” Thorin barked, striding past them. “Quickly.”

Carefully pulling back the blood-blackened wool of his trousers to expose the wound, Kíli ground his teeth to keep from flinching.

“Here, lad,” said Bofur, holding out the bottle of Elven wine he had stolen. “Have a pull of this.” Kíli gratefully accepted it and drank deeply. The red was sweet and earthy. He fancied for a moment that he was back in the dungeons of Mirkwood, looking up at the fair face of the Elf maid Tauriel. Pain dispelled the vision, though, as Oin prodded at his thigh.

“Is it deep?” asked Fíli, squeezing his brother’s shoulder.

“Not frightfully,” Oin muttered, “but it needs to be cleaned. Give me that bottle, lad.” Before Kíli could protest, the older Dwarf snatched the wine from his hand and poured a fair amount over the wound.

Kíli howled. “You’re a madman!”

“Be silent!” Thorin snapped. “We are not alone.”

“Who goes there?” called Dwalin, hefting a long branch up as a bludgeon.

Kíli heard the scraping of a boot against stone. “There!” he cried, pointing to the rocks just beyond where he sat. A tall Man, dark of hair and clothed in weathered oilskin and fur, stood there with his bow trained on Dwalin.

“Move,” said the Man, “and you’re dead.”

“Peace, stranger,” Balin said, raising his open hands to show that he bore no weapons. “We mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?” the Man demanded, pulling his bowstring back further. “What is your business here?”

Balin brushed a hand nervously over his beard. “We are simple merchants from the Blue Mountains, journeying to see our kin in the Iron Hills.”

The Man cocked a brow. “Merchants, you say? Then where are your goods? Your fine wares?”

“Lost,” said Thorin, stepping forward. “When we tried to ford the river. We need food, supplies…weapons. Can you help us?”

Warily, he lowered his bow. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Those boots have seen better days,” said Balin. “As has that coat. We have coin, should that barge over there be for hire. No doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed. How many bairns?”

“A boy and two girls,” said the Man.

Balin smiled. “Lovely, lovely. And your wife…I imagine she’s a beauty.”

Sorrow filled the Man’s eyes. “Aye,” he said. “She was.”

“I am so very sorry,” Balin began. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, come on, come on,” snarled Dwalin. “Enough of the niceties. Will you aid us or no?”

Setting the end of his bow atop his foot, the Man leaned against it. “What’s your hurry?”  “What’s it to you?” asked Thorin.

“I would like to know who you are,” said the Man, “and what you are _really_ doing in these lands. You see, I know where those barrels came from and I can whatever business you had with the Elves, I don’t think it ended well.”

Thorin scowled, but remained silent.

“There are supplies to be had in Lake Town,” the Man said, “but none enter but by leave of the Master. All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm. He would see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduíl.”

“I’ll wager there are ways to enter that town unseen,” said Balin hurriedly.

“Aye,” the Man replied. “But for that, you would need a smuggler.”

“For which we would pay double,” said Thorin.

Running thumb and forefinger over his short beard, the Man nodded. “Twenty gold pieces.”

“Fourteen,” said Balin, crossing his arms over his chest. “One per head. The barrels will fetch a fine enough price at market.”

“Not when they’re marked with holes from…what? Arrows?” said the Man. “It’s twenty.”

“Very well,” Balin grumbled, holding out his hand.

Shaking it, the Man said, “I am called Bard. Now, take those barrels and help me load them onto the barge.”

“Stay here, brother,” said Fíli.

“I’m all right,” Kíli protested, though Fíli’s stern look silenced him. With a sigh, he allowed Oin to bind a length of damp cloth around his leg.

“Do you think this Bard is to be trusted?” he asked.

Oin shrugged. “What other choice do we have but to trust him?”

“I don’t like him,” Kíli said.

“We do not have to like him,” said Balin. “We simply have to pay him. Have you any coin, lad?”

Kíli shook his head. “Fíli has our share.”

Nodding, Balin went to retrieve the rest of the gold.

“I’ve had enough of this lippy lakeman,” said Dwalin as he returned from delivering a pair of barrels to Bard. “I say we kill him and take the barge for ourselves.”

“He’s a widower with three children,” said Fíli, frowning. “Let’s not make orphans of them if we can help it.” Grumbling, Dwalin fell silent.

“There’s a wee problem,” said Balin after a moment. “We’re ten coins short.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Thorin looked down his nose at the company. “Gloin. Come on. Give us what you have.”

“Don’t look to me,” he said, his beard a red halo of fuzz around his face. “I’ve been bled dry by this venture. And what have I seen for my investment? Naught but misery and grief and–”

He was cut short by Bifur clouting the back of his head with a disapproving grunt.

“Oh, all right,” said Gloin. He reached into his shirt and withdrew a sodden leather purse. Balin took it and nodded. “Let’s be off then.”

“You’ll have to get into the barrels,” said Bard.

“We’ll do no such thing,” Bofur said. “I’m done with those blasted things.”

Bard rolled his eyes. “If you value your freedom, you’ll do as I say. There are guard posts we must pass through before we reach Lake Town.”

“Come on,” said Kíli, standing. He groaned as he put weight on his injured leg. With Fíli’s help, though, he managed to get himself over the edge of the barrel and slide down into it again.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Bard, his eyes narrow.

“I took an arrow, is all,” said Kíli, looking up at the Man. “I’ll be fine.”

“Keep quiet now,” Bard said as he loosed the mooring lines and pushed the barge though the icy waters of Esgaroth.


	8. Chapter 8

A splash of dark blood was drying on the rocks just beyond the mouth of the Forest River. Kneeling, Tauriel swiped her fingertip through it and lifted it to her nose. She knew well the coppery scent of blood, but in this she could also distinguish the reek of sulfur. It was unmistakably the taint of Morgul steel.

Tauriel had first learned of the cursed blades once carried by the Nazgûl, the wicked servants of Sauron the Deceiver, from reading the chronicles of the War of the Last Alliance. Forged in the smithy of the Dark Lord by weaving evil spells into black ash from Orodruin—Mount Doom, as it was called by Men—Morgul weapons could pierce armor as easily as a hot knife sliced butter. And when they tasted flesh, their curse would poison the blood. As the magic leached from the steel, the blade would be reduced again to harmless ash. Within hours, though, the dark spells would fill the body, blackening the blood. By the next day, anyone cut by a Morgul blade would fall into shadow, becoming a wraith himself.

“Is there a cure?” Tauriel had asked Míriel, the Healer of the House, many years ago, when she was still a novice.

“There is,” Míriel had replied, “though the healing takes great skill, greater even than that of many of our kind. Any Elf can make a poultice of athelas, but it takes a true healer to cast out the evil.”

“Athelas,” Tauriel had mused. A small patch of it grew in the healers’ garden, but she had never seen it used.

“It is also called kingsfoil,” said Míriel. “Many have forgotten it now, but when the War of the Last Alliance raged, I used it to heal many wounds.”

Tauriel’s brows had risen. “Morgul wounds?”

“Only two,” Míriel had said, sorrowful. “The third was…too grave.”

At first, the Healer had been unwilling to teach Tauriel the spell that would mend such a wound, but after a decade of her needling, Míriel had finally relented. Together they filled a basket with athelas, peeled the leaves from the stems, and ground it into a paste. All the while Míriel sang the words to the spell: “ _Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin. Hon leitho o ngurth._ ” In Westron, it meant: “May the blessing that was given to me be sent from me to him. May he be released from death.”

“It’s so simple,” Tauriel had said after she had repeated the words.

Míriel had smiled. “It may seem so, but working magic is never simple. At the very least, using this spell will be exhausting. But, if you sustain it for too long, it will consume you.”

“You speak as though you know,” said Tauriel, laying her hand over the Healer’s.

“I do, child,” she sighed. “It was near the end of the War of the Last Alliance, at the Battle of Dagorlad. I had already healed two others that day when they brought the Queen to me. She had fallen upon the blade of the Witch-King of Angmar. I would have died to save her, but I had not the strength. She could not abide the transformation and so she called for Thranduíl, her husband. He put his own blade through her heart before the poison could make her into a servant of Sauron.”

Míriel had looked entreatingly at Tauriel then. “The king forbade me to speak of it to anyone, but if you are to use magic, you must understand the price. This spell can be as much a curse as that which lays upon Morgul steel. Do you see that, Tauriel?”

“I do, my lady.”

Tauriel had nearly forgotten the spell—for Nazgûl, cursed blades, and the Dark Lord were the stuff of legends—until the Orc she and Legolas captured had spoken of a Morgul shaft. Her chest tightened with fear as she washed the foul-smelling blood—Kíli’s blood—from her fingers. If she did not reach him by morning, he could be beyond her skill to heal.

Tauriel stood, surveying the land around her. The Dwarves had come this way for certain, but there were no tracks to follow along the lakeshore. The barrels, too, were nowhere to be found. That left one route: the company had found a boat in which to cross the Long Lake. If the dried blood and the height of the sun were any guide, Tauriel could guess that she was nearly three hours behind them.

Cursing, she scrambled down a nearby embankment to where the moss-covered ruins of a hut lay. The lakeside guard post had been abandoned for as long as she could remember, but it had once housed a small fleet of narrow boats. The door had long ago fallen in, allowing Tauriel to creep inside. The air within was stagnant and cold.

Carved into the stone walls were cradles for at least eight boats, though most were empty or filled with moldering wood. Tauriel, disappointed, was about to go out again when she glanced above her. Hung from a chain by the breasthook at the bow was a single boat. It was shorter and narrower than those the cradles were meant to hold; it could carry four at the most. It had neither mast nor sail, only two wooden paddles shaped to resemble leaves tucked against the ribbed frame. The wood of the hull was dry with age and disuse, but intact.

The chain that held the vessel was made to be lowered with a hand crank near the door. It was stiff with rust, but Tauriel managed to force it, placing the stern of the boat within her reach. As she lifted it free, she discovered it was far lighter than she had expected. Gripping the port and starboard gunwales, Tauriel raised it above her head and carried it out of the boathouse. She held her breath as she set it down into the water, looking it over for leaks. Thankfully, there were none.

Stepping lightly aboard, she sat and took up one of the paddles. With the first stroke, the boat slipped smoothly through the water. Tauriel willed herself not to look back at the tree-lined river.

 _Hold on, Kíli_ , she thought. _Be strong._ Steering the sleek boat out into the Long Lake, she left the Greenwood behind.

 <<< >>>

“This place stinks of fish oil and tar,” said Kíli as he pulled his sodden tunic over his head. He tossed it into a pile by the fire.

“I believe it’s you that stinks, brother,” Fíli said, smirking. “All of us, in fact. We did climb up through the toilet.”

“And if you speak of it to anyone again, lad,” Dwalin snarled. “I’ll rip your arms off.”

Kíli chuckled as he reached for a clean shirt. It was far too large for him, but it was fashioned of thick wool, soft and dry. Keeping warm was all that mattered to him just then.

Bard of Lake Town had taken the company as far as he could on the canals, but the only hidden route into his house involved a short swim and a climb up through the latrine. Awaiting the Dwarves had been Bard’s wide-eyed children: two girls and a boy, just as he had said.

“Dwarves!” the smallest girl chirped. “Will they bring us luck, Da?”

“Only if you’re very sweet and good,” said Glóin, chucking her under the chin and making her laugh. Though the red-bearded Dwarf looked fearsome, he had a soft spot for children, being the sole member of the company who had a child of his own. Gimli was only ten years Kíli’s junior, but his father had insisted he remain at Ered Luin rather than join their quest to Erebor. He had been furious about it, but Kíli and Fíli had gotten him quite drunk the night before they were to leave. He was still sound asleep when they set off toward the Shire.

Kíli glanced over at Bilbo, who was in remarkably good spirits, and smiled. He had not expected the Halfling to have the mettle to make it this far, but now he could not imagine having made the journey without him.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Bard’s eldest daughter. She was called Sigrid, if Kíli recalled it correctly. He shook his head. His leg was aching again, so, leaning heavily on a long pole that had been resting in the corner, he lowered himself down onto a box beneath the windowsill.

His wound had already bled through the makeshift dressing with which Óin had bound it. Peeling it back, Kíli bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The skin beneath was swollen and inflamed. The blood that oozed sluggishly from the cut, though, was far darker than it ought to be. Cutting the dressing free, Kíli saw tendrils of black spreading beneath his skin.

“Are you all right?” asked Fíli. He held a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

Kíli nodded, quickly covering the wound again. Fíli eyed him with suspicion, but before he could speak, Bard returned, a bundle wrapped in oilcloth under his arm. Setting it on the table, he uncovered a pile of rusted fishing hooks bound to branches and makeshift clubs.

“What is this?” Thorin asked.

“The weapons you wanted,” Bard replied.

“Weapons!” Bofur scoffed. “Hardly.”

“We paid you for iron forged swords and axes,” said Dwalin. “Not this rubbish.”

“You won’t find better outside the city armory,” said Bard, scowling. “All iron-forged weapons are held there under lock and key.” He was answered with grumbles and protests.

“Thorin,” Balin said, loud enough to be heard over the din. “Why not take what is offered and go? I’ve made do with less, and so have you. I say we leave now.”

“You can’t!” Bard’s lad, Bain, exclaimed. “The Master’s men are watching the house.”

“And probably every dock and wharf in the town,” said Bard. “You must wait until nightfall if you wish to escape their notice.”

Kíli turned to the window above his seat, allowing his uncle to negotiate with their host. Outside, the sun was nearing its zenith, marking midday. They would have a while to wait before they could make for the Mountain, time enough for him to sleep a little. Just as he was closing his eyes, though, he caught sight of what was atop one of the tall, wooden towers.

“A Dwarvish windlance,” he said, awed.

Thorin’s voice boomed through the house, “What did you say?”

“There’s a windlance here, Uncle,” Kíli said. “Come and see.”

Pushing open the window, Thorin gazed out over Lake Town. “It cannot be,” he breathed. “They were all destroyed…the day the dragon came.”

“All save that one,” said Bain. “It was brought here by Girion, Lord of Dale, who wielded it against Smaug.”

“Wielded and failed,” Thorin said. “Had the aim of Men been true that day, things would have been much different.”

“You speak as if you were there,” said Bard, looking up from the table to meet Thorin’s gaze.

“All Dwarves know the tale,” Balin laughed, though Kíli could hear the uneasiness in it.

“Then you would know that Girion _hit_ the dragon,” said Bain. “He loosed a scale under the left wing. One more shot and he would have killed the beast.”

“That’s naught but an old wives’ tale,” Dwalin said.

“Even if it were true,” said Balin. “A dragon’s hide is stronger than any armor. Only a Black Arrow forged in the fires of Erebor could penetrate it. And there are no more Black Arrows. Girion spent them all.”

Dain opened his mouth to protest, but Bard shook his head. The boy fell silent.

“Sigrid and Tilda will see to it that you are fed,” said Bard. “Bain and I will go in search of better fitting clothes for you. We should be back before nightfall. I suggest you take some rest.”

Once he had gone, Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin sat down, their heads close together as they talked quietly. Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and Ori were curled up in blankets and sleeping in no time.

“Do all Dwarves snore so?” asked Tilda, looking up at Glóin.

“Only the lazy ones,” he teased.

Óin and Nori lent their hands to Sigrid in the kitchen. Fíli and Dori played at dice. With a sigh, Kíli laid his head back against the window and closed his eyes. His last thoughts as he drifted into sleep were of a fair maid in a gown white as starlight, her hair—red as a fire moon—swirling around her as she danced beneath the trees.

<<< >>>

The afternoon was falling into evening as Tauriel sailed into Lake Town. Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head to hide her face and ears, she found a secluded corner of the wharfs to tie up her boat. Glad to return to solid ground, she stepped lightly along the boardwalk in search of a tavern. If there was news to be had among Men, it would be exchanged over a pint of ale.

What she found was _The Gutted Eel_ , a single, dark taproom in which the air was thick with pipe smoke. A gawky woman with yellow eyes stood guard before three kegs of ale nearly as tall as she was.

“Haven’t see you here before,” she squawked as Tauriel approached. “What’ll you have, stranger? First one’s on the house.”

“A pint of your ale will serve,” Tauriel said gratefully, for she had no money to speak of. Taking the pint, she chose a seat near the center of the room, though it was shadowed by a pillar of roughhewn wood. If afforded a good view of the door and allowed her to eavesdrop on the conversations going on around her.

The ale was sour and warm. She drank small sips every so often only to keep her hands busy. The Men of Lake Town talked most of the poor fishing and how their Master hoarded the wealth from their trade with the Woodland Realm. They had little love for him, it seemed.

The oil in the lamp above the door had burned almost halfway down as Tauriel sat and waited. The barkeep’s cordiality had faded quickly as she realized the stranger was not drinking enough. She was scowling at Tauriel’s hooded face when a young girl burst into the tavern.

“What’s all this then?” the barkeep screeched, hands on hips.

“Mae!” called the girl. “Come quick! The Master’s caught a pack of Dwarves tryin’ to rob the armory.”

“Dwarves, you say?” said one of the Men, lifting a battered eye patch to reveal that the eye below was intact. “There haven’t been Dwarves ‘round here for half a century. You’re seeing things, girl.”

“I am not!” the girl said, stamping her foot. “Come and see for yourself, you old codger!” With that, she scampered out again, followed closely by everyone else in the tavern. Pulling her cloak tight around her, Tauriel went after them.

<<< >>>

After a meager supper of hot broth and bread, Kíli began to grow restless. Bard’s house was nearly too small for the Man and his children. With thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit in residence as well, it was unendurable. Kíli recalled something of a landing just outside the door they had come in through. Glancing around to ensure he was not observed, he slipped out.

Twilight had descended and with it a chilly breeze had come up. Kíli was glad for it, though. His skin felt so hot that he fancied he might start steaming in the damp air.

He couldn’t see over the railing, but it was not down to the canals that he gazed. It was up at the rising moon. Hardly more than a sliver, it was so unlike the fire moon of which he had told the Elf maid.

 _Tauriel_ , he sighed inwardly. _Does she look at the same moon in this very moment?_ He smiled at the thought. “Are we joined by light?”

“Joined with who?” asked Fíli, appearing from inside.

“Mother,” Kíli lied, clearing his throat.

“That may fool one of the others,” said Fíli, clapping his brother on the back, “but not I. No one looks to sky with such longing as he thinks of his mother, Kíli. It is the Elf maid who ensnares your mind.”

Kíli looked sharply up, searching Fíli’s face for displeasure. There was none, though, only interest and amusement.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Fíli chuckled. “I have kept greater secrets of yours before. But you must tell me true, brother, do you love her?”

“I do not know,” Kíli sighed, leaning against the railing. “As a boy I thought I loved many a fair Dwarf maid. When I saw them they gave me joy, but I was never bereft of them when they were gone from my sight. Now…there is not a moment when I am alone that my thoughts do not turn to her.” He shook his head. “I have never felt that before.”

“She is very beautiful,” said Fíli, though he added, teasing: “For an Elf.”

Kíli punched him hard in the shoulder.

“It comes to blows!” Fíli laughed. “You _must_ love her if you are willing to turn against your own brother.”

“I’m in no mood for this,” Kíli grumbled, turning toward the door.

“Wait!” said Fíli. “I did not intend to mock you. Lady Tauriel freed us and she always treated us with honor. I hold her in the highest regard, though perhaps not so highly as you.”

“It makes no matter how I regard her,” said Kíli. “I’ll not see her again.”

“You cannot be certain,” said Fíli. “The days to come hold more secrets than you can know.”

“Of this I am,” said Kíli, turning to the sky again, “for she walks in starlight in another world.”

Smiling half in wonder and half in sorrow, Fíli said, “Come, brother. Let us go back before we are missed.” Nodding, Kíli followed him into the noise and heat once again.

Thorin greeted them as they entered. “There you are,” he said. “The two girls have gone on an errand. This is our chance.”

“Chance for what?” asked Kíli.

“To get to armory,” Thorin replied. “As soon as we have the weapons, we make straight for the Mountain.”

“At last!” said Fíli, grinning. Kíli, too, flashed a smile, though he winced as he strode after his kin.

<<< >>>

There was already a crowd gathered in the town square when Tauriel arrived. A squat Man with greasy hair and a fine fur robe over his shoulders stood upon the stairs to the tallest tower in Lake Town. Tauriel could only assume he was the Master.     

“Hold your tongue!” called a familiar, gruff voice from the inside the circle of bystanders. “We are not common criminals.”

“Mercenaries, then,” said the Master, dismissive of the Dwarf before him. Tauriel recognized him as one of the warriors of the company, Dwalin.

“Never!” he roared. “We are the Dwarves of Erebor.”

“My kinsman speaks true,” said Thorin Oakenshield, stepping forward. “I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and heir of the throne of Durin.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened as he spoke. In his cell, Oakenshield had been brooding and wrathful, and she had not thought him kingly. But now, as he stood before the Men of Lake Town with his shoulders square and head high, he looked worthy of a crown.

“I remember this town in the bright days of old,” he said. “Fleets of boats lay at harbor, filled with silks and fine gems. This was no forsaken town on a forgotten lake, but a rich city of trade. I would see those days return. I would relight the great forges of my people and send riches flowing once more from the halls of Erebor!”

“Death!” cried a Man from the crowd. Tauriel could see that he was handsome, dark of hair and eyes. “That is what you will bring upon us, Dwarf. Dragon fire and ruin. If you waken that beast, it will destroy us all.”

“Will you hear this naysayer?” Thorin asked, arms spread wide. “Or will you hear me? For I promise you this: if we succeed, all with share in the wealth of the Mountain and Esgaroth will thrive again!”

Applause and scattered cheers rose up from the crowd, but the Man continued over them: “Why would you take the word of this stranger over mine? How do we even know we can trust him?”

“I will vouch for him,” said a small voice from behind the Man.

“And who are you?” asked the Master.

“Bilbo Baggins, Halfing of the Shire, at your service,” said the Hobbit with a shallow bow. “As you can see, I cannot call these Dwarves my kin, but I have traveled far and through great danger in their company. If Thorin Oakenshield gives his word, he will keep it.”

Tauriel smiled, her heart stirred by Bilbo’s declaration.

“Have you forgotten what happened to Dale?” cried the Man. “Have you forgotten those who died in the firestorm? And for what purpose? The blind ambition of a Dwarven king so riven by greed, he could not see beyond his own desire!”

“Now, now,” said the Master. “We must not be too quick to lay blame. Let us not forget, Bard, that it was Girion, Lord of Dale, _your_ ancestor, who failed to kill the dragon!”

“ _You_ are Girion’s get?” demanded Dwalin, glaring.

Bard disregarded him, going instead to Thorin. “You cannot do this. You have no right to enter the Mountain.”

“I have the only right,” Oakenshield replied, though Tauriel could barely hear him. Turning to the Master, he cried, “What is your decision, then, Master? Will you see the splendor of Erebor return?”

The Master said nothing for a moment, stroking a hand along his oiled mustache. And then: “I say unto you, Thorin Oakenshield, welcome! Welcome, King Under the Mountain!”

The crowd cheered in earnest at that, some even embracing in their joy.

“Come, come,” said the Master. “There is food and drink to be had in my house. We will celebrate your arrival with a feast!”

Ascending the stairs, Thorin and the Master disappeared into the house. Slowly, the other Dwarves began to follow. At last, Tauriel saw Kíli. He was walking with a limp, his face drawn and pale. Tauriel’s call of his name was lost in the merrymaking of the Men.

“Make way!” cried Tauriel, pushing her way forward. “Please, let me though.” She was near the middle of the throng when Kíli collapsed, slumping against his brother Fíli.

Breaking into the center of the square, she went to Kíli’s side. He was lying prone on the boards, his eyes rolled back.

“Get away from him!” Fíli snarled.

“It’s all right, Fíli,” said Tauriel, putting back her hood. “It’s me.”

“Lady Tauriel,” he said. “What’s the matter with Kíli?”

“He’s been poisoned,” she replied.

“Can you help him?”

“Yes. But we must get him inside. Somewhere quiet and away from prying eyes.”

Fíli turned to the Man who had spoken against Thorin.

“No,” he said. “I’m done with Dwarves.”

“Please!” cried Fíli. “My brother is sick!”

“My Lord Bard,” said Tauriel, rising. “That is your name?”

He nodded.

“Mine is Tauriel. I come from the Woodland Realm. These Dwarves are friends to me, and this one will die if I do not heal him.”

Bard sighed. “All right. Follow me.”

Returning to Kíli, Tauriel lifted him into her arms. “Lead on.”

The Man’s house was not far from the square. As Tauriel entered, she was greeted by three curious children.

“Da!” said the eldest, a girl with golden hair. “What’s going on?”

“An Elf!” the smallest girl said. “We must truly be lucky now.”

“Lay him on the table,” said Bard, pointing. Gently, Tauriel laid Kíli down. He groaned in pain, his eyes closed tight.

“I need hot water,” she said. “A mortar and pestle. Have you athelas?”

“You mean kingsfoil?” Bard asked. “No, it’s a weed. We feed it to the pigs.”

Tauriel nodded. “Then you will know where to find some.”

“I do,” said the youngest girl.

“Good, Tilda,” said Bard. “Bain, go with your sister.” The boy and girl scampered out and down the stairs.

“I’ve set the water to boil,” said Fíli, though he had not yet taken his eyes from his brother. “What now?”

“Cut his breeches away,” Tauriel said. Reaching for her satchel, she removed a small jar of golden honey.

“Mahal’s beard,” Fíli cursed as he uncovered the wound. “What poison is this?”

“Blood magic,” said Tauriel as she poured the honey into the mortar. “Such that has not been seen in an age.”

Fíli gaped. “But…he took an Orc’s arrow. Orcs cannot work spells.”

Tauriel laid a hand on his shoulder. “It was the tip of the arrow that bore the curse. It was fashioned of Morgul steel. I do not know how the Orcs came by it, but it bodes ill.”

“Here is the kingsfoil!” Tilda said, running into the house.

“Thank you,” said Tauriel. Stripping the leaves from the stems, she dropped them into the mortar and began to grind.

“The water is boiling,” said the eldest girl.

Tauriel nodded. “Take it from the fire and soak some rags.” Reaching into the mortar, she scooped the salve up in her hand and went to Kíli. He was writhing in pain, his eyes milky and unfocused. Holding his knee down, Tauriel pressed the salve against the wound. Kíli screamed.

“Hold him down!” Tauriel called to Bard and Kíli.

Taking a breath to clear her mind, Tauriel began to chant: “ _Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin. Hon leitho o ngurth._ ”

The room around her darkened and faded away until she and Kíli were all that remained. Looking down, she could see the shadow twisting within him, its tendrils weaving themselves into his flesh. Pressing her palms against his thigh, she sang louder, willing the bright light of her own life to flow into him.

“May the blessing that was given to me,” she said, “be sent from me to him. May he be released from death.” The darkness began to recede, though slowly. Before long, Tauriel was gasping for air, her strength ebbing faster and faster.

Drawing on the last of her power, she called out to him: “Kíli! _Innikh dê!_ ” Then, her vision clouded, and Tauriel saw no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things for the lore nerds out there (like me): The bit about Morgul blades disintegrating after touching flesh and making the victim a wraith comes straight from The Lord of the Rings. It’s what happened to Frodo on Weathertop. The part about the origin of Morgul steel, though (ashes and evil magic), is my invention. I just thought it sounded like something Sauron would do.
> 
> My other note concerns Legolas’s mother, the queen. Obviously, as she is never mentioned in canon, it is my take on her death. I know it’s just terrible for poor Thranduíl to have been the one to actually kill her, but it was her choice since she did not want to be a wraith. In Chapter 1, Legolas says that his mother “chose to go into the West.” That is simply what Thranduíl told him to spare him the pain of knowing what really happened to her. It is likely, yes, that Legolas would have been at the Battle of Dagorlad, as it was the last and greatest of the War of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men during the Second Age, when Sauron fell, but for the purposes of this story, he remained in the field while Míriel and Thranduíl tended to the queen.
> 
> One last quick thing: While I was looking at the map of Middle Earth, I realized that the River Running is the river that flows south from Esgaroth, not the river that flows through Mirkwood. That’s the Forest River. I’ve changed it in this chapter and am going back to edit the previous ones to make sure it has the right name.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I had fun messing around with the movie dialog and timeline.


	9. Chapter 9

The first sense that returned was smell. It was not the cool dryness of the Greenwood that Tauriel breathed in, but a smoky, damp odor that she did not care for. Opening her eyes, she saw a low, sloped ceiling above her, its beams roughly hewn. She was resting on two thin pillows pressed against the headboard of a short bed. A fading woolen blanket covered her legs. It was warm, almost too much so, for a fire flickered through the open mouth of a soot-blackened stove at the center of the room. Perched on a three-legged stool across from it was the Dwarf Fíli, his face stony as he prodded the logs with a tarnished brass poker.

“Can you not be still?” grumbled a deep, Dwarven voice. Thorin Oakenshield sat with his broad back to Tauriel, beside the table where Kíli still lay, covered with a quilt.

Tauriel’s heart clenched as the memory of the previous night's events returned to her. Though his eyes were closed, Kíli’s chest rose and fell steadily. Tauriel breathed a sigh of relief. She had succeeded in working Míriel’s spell.

“Lady Tauriel,” said Fíli, standing. “You’re awake at last. Are you well?”

She nodded as she slid out of bed, still fully dressed. “The healing took much of my strength, but I am well enough.” She had no desire to tell him that she could not remember when last she had felt so weary. “How does your brother?”

“He sleeps as deeply as a child,” said Oakenshield, turning to face her.

“As he should,” Tauriel said. “With hope, he will rest until the morrow.”

“So long?” Thorin sighed. At Tauriel’s nod, he continued, “Then we must go on without him. If we are to reach the Mountain by nightfall, we can risk no more delays.”

“What?” Fíli demanded. “Uncle, Kíli and I grew up on tales of the Mountain. Tales you told us! He is part of our company, your own kin. You cannot take this away from him!”

Thorin shook his head. “Fíli, we have but one chance to open the door—”

“I will carry him if I must!”

Stepping between them, Tauriel said, “He is not strong enough for the road. Even if he were to be carried.”

Fíli crossed his arms over his chest, his expression dark. “Then I will stay here with him.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Thorin. “You belong with the company.”

“No, Uncle. I belong with my brother.”

“I, too, will remain here until he is restored,” said Tauriel, going to Kíli’s side. She laid a hand upon his brow, relieved to find that the skin was warm, but not feverish.

Thorin turned to her, his gaze hard. Looking up, she met it, unflinching.

“You have my thanks, Elf maid,” he said, gruff. “I will not say that I care for your kind, but you freed us from the Elvenking’s dungeon and saved the life of my nephew. That will not be forgotten.”

Tauriel inclined her head. “It was my honor.”

“If you must stay, Fíli,” said Thorin, laying a hand on his shoulder, “then be vigilant. We will await you both in the halls of our fathers.”

“We will come as swiftly as we can,” Fíli replied. With a nod, Thorin went out. Both Tauriel and Fíli remained silent until his heavy footfalls had faded away. From the town square there came a trumpet fanfare, cheers, and then stillness.

Fíli sighed heavily, sinking down onto the stool by the fire again.

“I have a boat,” said Tauriel after a moment. “You may take it if you have changed your mind.”

“I thank you, my lady,” he said, “but no. I meant what I said. My place is with Kíli.”

Tauriel smiled. “Then will you help me move him to the bed? I imagine Bard and his children will be returning soon and could use their table.”

Without hesitation, Fíli went to his brother and took a firm but cautious grip beneath Kíli’s shoulders. Tauriel lifted his feet, and together they carried him to the bed where Tauriel had lain. Leaving the woolen blanket to the side, she covered him with the patched quilt.

“I must echo my uncle’s thanks,” Fíli said once they had returned to the fireside. “Without you, he would not have survived, and we would still be imprisoned.”

“I did only what I thought to be right,” said Tauriel, placing a half-full kettle on top of the stove to boil. “Ridding this land of the dragon would be a great boon for Elves as well as for Dwarves and Men. King Thranduíl could not see that, but I can.”

She found an earthen jug containing tea leaves and dropped a pinch or two into the water.  Fíli scratched his golden beard, smiling.

“What is that look?” Tauriel asked.

“I meant no offense,” Fíli replied. “I am, though, beginning to understand how Kíli came to admire you so.”

“And that amuses you?” she said, eyeing him warily. Oakenshield was no friend of her kind, and it was likely that Fíli, too, was not.

“It pleases me to discover that your beauty is not your only admirable quality,” he said, his grin broadening. “Though it is prodigious.”

Despite herself, Tauriel laughed aloud. “Kíli was right. He said you are a fine hand at complimenting a maid.”

“Did he now?” Fíli chuckled. “Well, I won’t be the one to contradict him.”

“And here I thought that Dwarves did not find great beauty among my people,” said Tauriel, cocking a brow. “Not enough facial fair, after all.”

“You make a fair point, my lady,” said Fíli, shrugging. “But there are some among us who can appreciate the high cheekbones and creamy skin of an Elf maid.”

“Your uncle is certainly _not_ among them,” she said as she took the steaming kettle from the stove  before it began to whistle. Pouring the tea into two mugs, she handed one to Fíli.

He frowned. “No. Alas, he is not. But, he was not always so callous. I have many fond memories of long days at the forge watching him work. He is a good smith, despite what he will say.”

“Kíli told me of the hunts he once took you both on,” said Tauriel. Blowing on her tea to cool it, she watched as Fíli shrugged.

“Kíli hunted,” he said. “I carried his kills. There was none in Ered Luin whose eyes were sharper than my brother’s.” He glanced over at Tauriel. “By your smile, my lady, I assume that he has also regaled you with tales of his prowess as a bowman, the braggart.”

“I challenged him to a contest,” said Tauriel. “To decide which of us is the better archer.”

Fíli barked a laugh, slapping his knee. “Oh, how I would like to see that! When Erebor is ours again, I insist that you make good on your challenge.”

“Would your uncle allow it?”

“With hope,” Fíli sighed. “He will be occupied by other things when he is king. As kings are.”

“I do not envy him,” said Tauriel honestly. “A crown comes with immeasurable obligation. I am glad that I will not have to bear the mantle of a queen.”

Fíli nodded. “That I understand. My hope is that Uncle Thorin will marry, for I am not overly keen on wearing a crown myself.”

“You are next in the line of succession?” asked Tauriel, surprised. “I did not know.”

“Third, as it happens,” he said, sipping his tea. “Uncle Thorin’s cousin Dáin is second in line, but he has long told us that our people must have more than one stronghold. He rules over the Iron Hills and if he were called to the Mountain, it is likely that he would abdicate the throne.”

“Leaving it to you. But if you do not want to be king…”

“If it is Uncle’s wish, I will honor it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Kíli, after all, has little desire to stay in any one place for long enough to be of anything. He has always preferred the wandering way we’ve followed since we were driven into Exile.”

“And you do not?” asked Tauriel.

“It has never suited me,” said Fíli, shaking his head. “I will be happy to call Erebor my home.”

“I have not known you long, Fíli,” said Tauriel, “but I believe that you will be a fine king.”

He smiled, his cheeks reddening a bit. “That is good of you to say, my lady. Balin would agree with you. I spent much of my youth under his tutelage, hearing his tales of Thráin and Thrór. But it will be many years yet before I must consider becoming king. We have yet to reclaim our home.” He sighed. “What of you, Lady Tauriel? What will you do if the dragon is vanquished?”

She looked down at her tea, her stomach suddenly too knotted to drink any more. “I am not certain,” she said. “By releasing your company and straying beyond the borders of the G—” she corrected herself, not without some sadness, “Mirkwood, I disobeyed the king’s order. For that I am banished.”

“Truly?” asked Fíli, agape.

“Thranduíl would do nothing to stop the evil in our land. I would.” She added, quickly, “And, of course, I learned of Kíli’s wound and knew that without Elvish medicine, he would perish. I could not allow that to happen.”

Fíli looked up at her, smiling. “You are quite remarkable, my lady, and I am glad to know you. I can only hope that I will be so fortunate in love as my brother is.”

Before Tauriel could reply, the _thunk_ of boots upon the stairs outside heralded the return of Bard and his children.

“The Elf lady is awake, Da!” said Tilda. “Can I ask her about Elvish medicine now?”

“Of course you may,” Tauriel replied, holding out her hand for the small girl to take. “Though you must promise to listen quietly, for Master Kíli is sleeping.”

<<< >>>

It was late in the afternoon by the time Tauriel had satisfied young Tilda’s curiosity about healing. As it turned out, the girl had a talent for it, and she would surely have more questions soon enough, but Tauriel was glad for a brief respite.

Once Tilda had gone to help her older sister Sigrid and brother Bain prepare supper, Tauriel had gone out onto the landing to find a place of fresh air and quiet in which to gather her thoughts. Leaning her arms against the rail, she looked out over the lake toward the Lonely Mountain.

Fíli’s words that morning had not yet left her mind. _I can only hope that I will be so fortunate in love as my brother is. Fortunate in love_. _In love_. She turned the phrase over and over in her thoughts. It was true that she had come to Lake Town to heal Kíli and that she had grown very fond of him, but love among the Eldar was sacred; it grew over decades and centuries, not a matter of days.

“My wife used to stand just as you are when she was troubled,” said Bard, coming up the stairs behind her. Tauriel had found over the course of the day that the Man’s disapproval of the Dwarves’ quest was born of fear for his family and livelihood rather than contempt for all Dwarf-kind. She understood his reasons, but they were akin to Thranduíl’s. They both wished only to protect what was theirs without consideration for what lay beyond their realms. Still, he seemed a good father and an honorable Man.

“Did she?” said Tauriel, turning.

Bard nodded. “She was often short of breath in the close air of the house, especially when she was upset. She would come out here until the spasm had passed.” Tauriel could hear the sorrow in his voice, and chose to remain silent.

“Her breathing was never strong,” Bard continued. “Tilda was barely weaned when…when she died.”

Tauriel laid a hand over his. “I am sorry. You loved her deeply.”

“Yes.”

Hoping to turn him toward happier memories, Tauriel asked, “How did you meet her?”

“Ah, well,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up, “she was a boatmaker’s daughter, far too beautiful and rich for the likes of me. But somehow I managed to catch her eye while I was looking to have my father’s barge repaired. Her father gave mine a good deal, and I was able to call on their house each day under the pretense of inquiring about the barge. We arranged to meet as often as possible, talking ceaselessly about nothing in particular, as lovers do. She kissed me on the third day and I was lost.”

“Certainly you did not marry her on the fourth day,” Tauriel said, smiling.

“If her father would have allowed it,” laughed Bard, “I would have. But we had a proper year’s courting after the barge was returned. The boatmaker never cared for me, but he gave his darling daughter whatever she wanted. And though I will never know why, it was me.” Turning his dark eyes on her, he asked, “What is it that troubles you, Lady Tauriel?”

“It is nothing of consequence,” she replied.

Bard laughed. “I was wed long enough to know that when a woman says that very thing that she is indeed considering something of _great_ consequence. Is it perhaps your Dwarf lad?”

“Kíli is not mine,” she said, though there was little conviction in her words.

“Ah, his brother did not tell you, then,” said Bard.

“Tell me what?” Tauriel asked.

“After you fainted, he—Kíli—spoke. He called your name, but then said that it could not be you, for you were far away. He said, ‘She walks in starlight in another world.’ We believed him to be sleeping then, but as his eyes drifted closed, he asked us, ‘Do you think she could have loved me?’ He said no more after that.”

Tauriel drew in a deep breath, having held it as the Man spoke.

“Is that—” Bard was cut short by the opening of the door at his back.

“Lady Tauriel,” said Fíli, stepping out into the fading light of the day. “He is awake.”

“That cannot be,” she said, turning. “Even the strongest Elf would sleep for a full day after such an ordeal.”

Fíli chuckled, running his fingers down one braid in his beard. “And any other Dwarf would as well, but Kíli is stubborn and bit of a fool. If you wish him to stay abed drinking tea any longer, you must tie him there yourself.”

“He needs rest,” Tauriel said, “and if that is what it takes, so be it.”

“We will wait without,” Fíli said, unsuccessfully hiding a grin as he turned away.

Striding past him and Bard, Tauriel turned the knob and entered the house. The stagnant air of sickness had gone, leaving only the scent of wood smoke and the damp of the lake. Kíli was still abed, pillows stacked behind him and the patched quilt covering his legs. He held a steaming cup of tea, sniffing in distaste.

“You’ll drink all of that and two more after,” Tauriel said.

Kíli looked up sharply, his dark eyes wide. “Is this a vision?”

“You are very much awake, Master Dwarf,” Tauriel replied, going to his side. “Would you be forced to drink such a vile brew in a dream? Would you not have healing mead instead?”

He laughed weakly, looking down at the tea. “You are right about that. What _is_ this?”

“Boiled birch bark,” replied Tauriel. “For the pain.”

“I feel no pain,” said Kíli, setting the cup down on the table at his bedside.

Tauriel’s heart lifted to see that the color had returned to his face and there was once again mischief in his eyes.

“My brother tells me that I owe you my life,” he said. “Again. How can I ever repay such a great debt?”

“There is no debt,” she said, tracing the crooked line of a stitch on the quilt with her forefinger. “The life of a friend bears no price.” A warm hand covered hers.

“I thought I dreamt you,” said Kíli, quiet. Tauriel looked down at their hands, her fingers slowly entwining with his.

“The arrow you took was forged of Morgul steel,” she said, “bearing a curse that burns through flesh as poison. Such evil magic has not been seen in an age, and none of your company could have healed you without the knowledge of my people.”

Lifting their hands until Tauriel met his eyes, Kíli asked, “You came here for me?”

She nodded. “I could not stand by and let the darkness take you.”

Closing his eyes tight, he pulled her hand to his lips. Though the dry kiss begged the healer in her to fetch him water and tea, Tauriel chose to sink down onto the edge of the bed at his hip. With a deep sigh, Kíli pushed his cheek into her fingers, covering them with his own.

“The pain,” he said. “It was beyond anything I had ever known. I only wished to be released from it, to pass into the dark. And then you were there, your voice cutting into me, calling me back from the shadow. I thought it a fever dream, for I knew I would not look upon your face again.” Reaching out, he touched a strand of her hair. “Tauriel, do you think that you could ever come to care for me?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning close so that she could trace the line of his jaw. “Banish your doubts.”

“Then come here,” he said, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck, “so that I might.”

The songs of the Eldar spoke of the blessing of a kiss, the purity of joy that filled the heart with light. Yet, prayer and purity were far from Tauriel’s mind as she tasted the warmth of Kíli’s mouth.

Heat like dragon fire burned in her belly as his short beard rasped against her chin. It hurt the skin, but she paid it no heed. Kíli’s hands were buried in her hair, pressing her lips tighter to his. She could hear the blood rushing her in ears and the sounds of contentment echoing deep in Kíli’s chest. Moving from her mouth, he pressed his cheek to hers.

“I can scarcely breathe,” he said. She felt the words brush across her ear.

“Then release me,” she said, rising enough to meet his eyes.

He smiled. “No.” The word was all but lost as he drew her back to his open mouth. His tongue traced her lips until she parted them, allowing him in. Her skin was alight in the places their bodies touched: her arms encircling his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, his hands tracing the line of her back, strong and insistent. The tunic and bodice she wore were stifling as warmth spread through her. She wished them gone, burned away if need be. As she reached for the laces, though, a sharp voice pierced her ears.

“Da!” Sigrid called, entering the house by the side door. “I’ve brought more willow bark for Lady Tauriel’s—oh!” Closing her mouth as quickly as it had dropped open, she stuttered, “My…my apologies. I had…no idea… I-I should go. Yes. Right away, in fact.”

By that time, Tauriel and Kíli had relinquished their embrace. She had risen and smoothed her hair. He rested on one elbow, scratching his head and chuckling lightly.

“Stay, young Sigrid,” Kíli said. “You might as well stay.”

The front door swung open, revealing Bard and Fíli, that latter’s eyes wet with tears of mirth.

“Ah, I see you’re finished administering my brother’s medicine, Lady Tauriel,” he said. “How does he?”

“He needs tea and rest,” she replied, taking the cup he had set aside and pressing it into his hands, “but he appears to be no worse for the wear.”

Kíli grinned up at her. “Will I require more medicine this day, Lady Elf?”

Turning away with a one-sided smile, she went to take the packet of bark Sigrid still held. “Thank you.” The girl nodded, blushing crimson.

“Bard,” said Tauriel, turning to him. “Perhaps Tilda would like to help me change Kíli’s bandages.”

“I have no doubt,” he replied. “I’ll send her up.”

“There’s hot water on the stove, Lady Tauriel,” said Sigrid. “For the bandages. And supper will be ready soon.”

“Thank you, Sigrid,” she said, returning to Kíli’s bedside.

“Taken command of a new guard, have you, Lady Elf?” asked Kíli, smirking.

Tauriel rolled her eyes. “Lie still and drink your tea, Master Dwarf. You will need your strength if you are to have more medicine this day.” To her chagrin, he drank it all down and asked for another cup.

<<< >>>

His thigh was achy, Kíli noted, but the pain was gone. As Tauriel unwrapped the bandages, he saw that the flesh beneath was pink and smooth as a babe’s.

“Mahal’s beard,” he said. “Are you certain that you did not cut off my leg and replace it with another?”

“Would you prefer that?” Tauriel asked in reply. “There is no reason I can’t.”

“I thank you,” Kíli laughed, “but no. This leg’s done right by me so far. Best not spoil a good thing.”

Tauriel smiled at him, reigniting the spark of desire in his breast. Moments before, that mouth had been upon his, muddling his thoughts. He had kissed a few girls in his time, but never one so lovely as his Elf-maid. If drinking bitter tea was the price of having her in his arms again, he was glad to pay it.

“May I tie the clean bandage on?” asked Tilda, Bard’s youngest girl. She had arrived shortly after her father had gone to fetch her, chattering happily about all the things she had learned about Elvish healing. Kíli liked children well enough, but it was Tauriel’s hands he wanted to feel against his skin, not the girl’s.

“You may,” said the Elf, “though you must first bring me that sprig of athelas.”

Kíli watched as Tilda dutifully took the herb and laid it where the wound had been. Carefully, she wrapped a length of clean wool around his thigh and secured it with a neat bow.

“Well done,” he said. “You are a fine healer, Tilda.”

She dropped a shallow curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”

From the kitchen, Sigrid called, “Tilda, will you come here please? And lower the curtain after you!”

Though her disappointment was evident, the girl excused herself, releasing the thin curtain that separated the sleeping quarters from the rest of the house.

“She is a kind child,” said Tauriel after a moment. The Elf-maid stood two paces from the bed as though she were frozen there, looking at her hands. Kíli did his best to keep from smiling, for he had not known her to be tentative.

“Tauriel,” he said. “Come here.”

Crossing the distance between them, she sat beside him again. His hand found hers, and he squeezed her fingers tightly. From beyond the curtain, he could hear Bard and Fíli conversing, their voices punctuated by the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.

“I believe Sigrid and Tilda are making as much noise as they can manage,” he said.

“Perhaps it is a custom among Men,” said Tauriel, wincing at a particularly loud crash.

“It is a custom among anyone living in such close quarters,” Kíli laughed, “when they wish to give others the chance to enjoy some measure solitude without being overheard.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened. “They are doing this for our benefit?”

Kíli nodded, stifling laughter. “They are. Now kiss me, Elf-maid, so that they are not mistreating their crockery in vain.” Drawing her down to his lips again, he sighed happily. She was warm beneath his hands and smelled of fallen leaves in the early autumn. She nipped at his lower lip, deepening the kiss as he had before.

Kíli yearned to be closer to her, to pull her down beside him and rest his head upon her chest. He wished to know if her heart was pounding as loudly as his. Moving his hand below the curve of her neck, he felt the steady beat beneath his fingers. She made a noise in her throat as his hand dropped lower, following the curve of her breast.

“Kíli,” she sighed against his mouth. “The children…your brother…”

“You are thinking of my brother in this of all moments?” he teased, trailing his lips along her neck and up to her ear. “Does my kiss dissatisfy you, Lady Elf?”

“It does not,” she replied, “though supper would satisfy as well.”

Pulling back, Kíli gave her his best look of betrayal. She laughed and gave him a chaste peck before getting to her feet.

“I will bring you something to eat,” she said. Reluctantly, he agreed.


	10. Chapter 10

The company for supper that night was unusual, but merry. Tauriel sat at the foot of the table closest to Kíli’s bed, where he lay, happily slurping at the meager fish stew she had brought him. Bard’s chair was at the head of the table, as was his custom. To his right was Fíli, seated across from Sigrid. Bain and Tilda came next, both listening intently as Fíli told stories of the great Dwarven heroes and of his own adventures across Middle Earth.

He had a gift for tales, Tauriel noted, just as Kíli did. Even Bard smiled as the brothers broke into the song they had sung to bother Bilbo Baggins when they had first arrived at his house in the Shire.

“ _Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_ ” sang Kíli.

“ _Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_ ” sang Fíli.

And then both: “ _Chip the glasses and crack the plates! That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!_ ”

“How terrible of you,” Tauriel said, laughing despite herself. She could only imagine how affronted the good-natured Hobbit had been at such a raucous, unexpected party.

“Bah,” said Kíli. “We left not a scratch upon a single dish.”

“Though Bombur ate all but the crumbs of every cheese in the pantry,” Fíli chuckled.

“Bilbo will have gold enough to buy a hundred wheels once Erebor is ours,” said Kíli. “I’ll see to it myself if I— ” His words were cut short as the house began to shake, raining dust and grime down from the ceiling.

Tauriel, Fíli, and Bard were on their feet in an instant, the former with their hands upon the hilts of their blades and the latter going to the window to look out into the darkness.

“Da,” said Tilda meekly. “What’s happening?”

A second shudder shook the house as Bard said, “It’s coming from the Mountain.”

“Can you see anything?” asked Tauriel. Bard shook his head.

“Could Bilbo have failed?” Kíli asked, his expression grim.

Fíli looked down. “Mahal guard us if he did.”

A furious roar broke the quiet of the night, causing even Tauriel to start, her heart hammering loudly in her chest. There was no mistaking the growl of a dragon.

“Smaug,” breathed Bain.

“Are we going to die, Da?” Tilda asked, wide-eyed.

“No, darling,” Bard replied.

“But the dragon,” said Sigrid. “It will kill us all.”

Reaching up to the beam above him, Bard pulled down an arrow as tall as he was, forged of black iron. “Not if I kill it first.”

“A black arrow!” Bain exclaimed. “How could you not tell me, Da?”

“Because there was no need for it while the dragon slept,” he sighed. “I had hoped there would never be again.”

“Have you more arrows?” asked Kíli, throwing the blanket from his legs. Going to his side, Tauriel slid her arm around his shoulders and helped him to his feet. He smiled at her, his fingers curling around her waist.

Bard shook his head. “Only this.”

“Then let us hope that your aim is truer than your grandfather’s,” said Fíli.

Bard scowled at him for a moment, but then nodded. Turning to Tauriel, he asked, “You came here by boat, my lady?”

“I did,” she said.

“Then will you do me a great service?”

“If it is in my power, I will,” she replied.”

“Take my children to safety.”

“No, Da!” Bain cried. “I want to stay here and fight with you.”

“It’s too dangerous,” said Bard.

“My brother and I will aid your father,” said Kíli, stepping shakily away from Tauriel.

“You will not!” she said, glaring down at him. “You can barely walk.”

“She’s right,” said Bard. “You will only slow me down. Go with the Elf.”

Fíli asked, brows knit, “Are you certain, bargeman? Kíli is fine archer and my sword’s edge is keen.”

“Then guard my children well,” said Bard, laying a hand on Fíli’s shoulder. The Dwarf nodded curtly.

“It’s not far to the boat,” Tauriel said. “Gather some warm clothes, children. Kíli, Fíli, we must go now. There is little time.” Swinging her traveling cloak over her shoulders, she turned to see Fíli attempting to offer Kíli his shoulder to lean upon.

“I’m fine,” Kíli grumbled.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Fíli snapped in reply.

Catching sight of a stout spear leaned against the wall in a corner of the kitchen, Tauriel fetched it and handed it to Kíli. He smiled at her gratefully, his pride having been wounded enough already.

As the Dwarves made for the door, Bard was embracing his children and pressing kisses to the tops of their heads.

“Be brave,” he said to them. “And do as Lady Tauriel bids you.”

“I will watch over them,” she said, “until you are reunited. Take care, Bard, bowman of Lake Town.” With that, she ushered Sigrid, Tilda, and Bain down the stairs and toward the quay where her boat was moored.

Others had heard the dragon’s call and there was chaos as Tauriel and her charges made their way along the docks. She was glad for Legolas’s cloak and for the small stature of the children and Dwarves, for they drew little attention as the Men of the town scurried to load their own vessels.

“Here,” she said as they arrived at the quay. Her boat would have room enough for all of them, though barely. “Fíli, will you take the paddle at the stern?”

“Aye,” he said, stepping into the boat.

“Kíli,” Tauriel said, “give me your hand.” As his fingers touched hers, Tauriel felt a jolt of warmth. Despite the situation, she smiled at him. He winked back at her.

The children needed no aid getting aboard the boat, for they had been raised on the lake. Once they had settled in the center of the vessel, their hands grasping the gunwales, Tauriel sank onto the seat at the bow and picked up her paddle. With a glance back at Fíli, together they pushed the boat away from the quay and into the ice-dotted canal.

“Look!” cried Sigrid, pointing to the sky above the Lonely Mountain. A dark shadow passed over the waxing moon, its form shedding golden droplets as it soared through the air and down toward Lake Town.

“Get your heads down,” said Kíli to the children, pulling Tilda to him to shield her. A moment later, the row of houses to their right erupted in flames. Fanned by the torrent of Smaug’s wings, the fire spread quickly, accompanied by the screams of burning Men. The brightness and heat washed over Tauriel, blinding her momentarily.

“Brace yourselves, lads,” she heard someone ahead of them say. As her vision cleared, she saw a larger boat directly in front of hers, its hull packed full of gold and silver. Tilda and Sigrid screamed as the vessels collided. Icy water splashed into Tauriel’s boots as the boat listed, but she and Fili were able to right it before it became too waterlogged. Digging her paddle deep into the water, Tauriel slowed them until the larger boat has passed.

By then the dragon was returning for another pass, his fiery breath raining destruction down upon Lake Town.

“Come on,” Tauriel called to Fíli. “We’re nearly out of the canals.”

“Bain, no!” cried Sigrid, trying to grab ahold of her brother’s coat. But he was too quick for her, springing out of the boat and up onto the nearby dock.

“What are you doing, boy?” Kíli demanded.

“I’m going to help my father,” he replied before disappearing around the corner.

Tilda called out his name in desperation, her voice gradually trailing off into deep sobs.

“Lady Tauriel,” said Sigrid, “we must go back for him!”

Swallowing heavily, Tauriel replied, “I am sorry, but we cannot. Trust that he will find your father.”

“Hush now,” said Kíli, rocking Tilda as he held her tight against him. “It’ll be all right.” As Tauriel met his eyes, though, she could see that he did not believe it any more than she did. Turning back to the bow, Tauriel paddled hard, and the boat slipped away from Lake Town and into the open waters of Esgaroth.

“Look there!” said Fíli. “The bell tower.”  Following his gaze, Tauriel could see the figure of a Man in a long coat standing atop the tallest tower in the town, drawing back the string of the Dwarvish windlance perched there. Gusts from the dragon’s wings buffeted him, but Bard managed to fire the black arrow.

Smaug cried out in agony a moment later, and Tauriel knew the arrow had found its mark. The dragon beat his wings once, twice, and then, with a tremendous sigh, plummeted toward the lake.

“He’s done it!” Fíli said. “He’s slain the dragon!”

The great carcass appeared to fall more slowly than it should have, perhaps because all who looked on the sight were transfixed. It plunged into the water with a terrific splash.

“Hold on!” Tauriel cried as a wave propelled their boat toward the shore. 

<<< >>>

Dawn was just beginning to break when Kíli awoke. He was burrowed beneath the thick wool of an Elven cloak and lay near the fire that Fíli had lit to keep Bard’s children warm. The narrow boat in which they had escaped Lake Town had managed to stay afloat even in the torrent that resulted from Smaug’s descent into the lake. Many of the other vessels had capsized and some of the Men in them had drowned. Those who made it to shore, though, had managed to aid their fellows, offering whatever dry clothes they had. Kíli was glad for the fish stew they had eaten for supper, for there was little food to be had now.

Sitting up, he saw young Tilda nestled in her sister Sigrid’s arms, both sleeping soundly. They had yet to find their brother Bain or their father Bard, bowman and dragon slayer, but Kíli had hope that they would soon find their way to shore.

His own brother Fíli was snoring gently on the opposite side of the fire, his hands folded over his chest. Kíli was glad to see him no worse for the wear, though he feared for his uncle and the company in Erebor. He did not know if they still lived. It could be that the dragon had slain them before taking to the skies. As soon as it was light, he and Fíli would set out for the Mountain to discover what had become of their kin. But, in the meantime, he turned his attention to Tauriel.

She was sitting cross-legged by the fire, occasionally feeding another piece of driftwood into the flames. Kíli watched his lovely Elf-maid for a time, unwilling to disturb her just yet. Her fiery hair was tousled, the braids at the crown of her head beginning to come loose. Kíli longed to take them out and comb his fingers through the locks until they were smooth again. Then, he would weave far sturdier plaits, perhaps even working beads into them, as the Dwarf-maids of Ered Luin were wont to do.

He remembered fondly the sound of the beads clacking together as the maids danced at feasts. New brides had worn the most, their kinswomen having spent many hours braiding them into their hair. Kíli could envisage beads of green and gold for Tauriel, each one fashioned by his own hand and only ever to be worn by the pair of them or their children.

Shaking his head, he put such thoughts from his mind. She cared for him, true, but he knew not what the coming days would hold.

Yearning to touch her before he was parted from her again, Kíli stood and made his way over to where she sat.

“Can you not sleep?” he asked quietly as he sat beside her.

“Elves did not sleep as Men and Dwarves do,” she replied, smiling. “I must simply find a place to quiet my mind until I am rested.”

“And are you?”

“Enough,” she replied. “You, though, should not yet be awake.”

“I’m fit as a fiddle,” he said. “Thanks to you, Lady Elf.”

“I am glad, Master Dwarf.”

As she drew her hand back from adding another piece of wood to the fire, Kíli caught it and pressed a kiss to the palm. She sighed, though her gaze never left his face. When he lowered her hand, she leaned across his lap and kissed his lips. It was a chaste kiss, unlike those they had shared the day before in Bard’s house.

Unsated, Kíli rose up on his knees and framed her face with his hands. For once he stood taller than her. Amused, he stooped until his mouth was on hers.

She turned so that she could embrace him, her breasts pressing against his belly. He sank onto his haunches and then sat so that she could cross her ankles behind him. He hitched his legs up over her thighs.

“Tauriel,” he breathed, as he relinquished the kiss, letting his hands slide down to her waist. “I do not wish to leave you, but Fíli and I must go to Erebor come morning.”

She nodded. “You must take the boat. It will be faster than going around the lake on foot.” Reaching into the satchel that she wore at her belt, she drew out a packet of herbs and a roll of clean bandage. “You must change the dressing twice more.”

Grasping her hands and the herbs, Kíli said, “Come with me! I know how I feel, and I’m not afraid.”

“I cannot leave Sigrid and Tilda here without their father,” she said, looking away.

“Then keep this,” said Kíli, drawing the runestone his mother had given him from his pocket. “As a promise.” He pressed the stone into her hand.

Tauriel smiled as she kissed him. “Kíli, _guren n_ _íniatha n’i l_ _û n’i a-govenitham_.”

He looked up at her, his brows knit.

Laughing quietly, she translated the words into Westron: “My heart shall weep until we meet again, dear Kíli.”

“As will mine,” he said. “Now come, Elf-maid, and rest with me until sunrise.” Drawing her down beside him, Kíli laid his head upon Tauriel’s breast and slept.

<<< >>>

Even if she could have fallen asleep that night, Tauriel would not have. In her right hand she held the runestone, her fingers worrying over the letters carved into its smooth face. Her left hand rested upon the back of Kíli’s head, nestled in the dark waves of his hair. Despite the cold and the smell of lake water upon them both, Tauriel was content to lie still with him at her side.

She smiled to herself. A fortnight past, never would she have dreamed that she would take a Dwarven lover, yet here she lay with his taste on her lips and his head between her breasts. Her heart thumped happily at his temple, but she was glad that it did not wake him.

As the sun began to appear on the horizon, the refugees of Lake Town began to stir. Tauriel’s chest tightened as she felt Kíli shift slightly in his sleep. She did not yet wish for the night to be over.

Fíli was the first among their little company to rise. Going to the water, he cupped his hand to drink and then splashed his face to wash the sleep from his eyes.

“Kíli,” Tauriel said, gently shaking his shoulder to rouse him. “The sun rises and so must we.”

Hiding his face against her, he muttered, “You are mistaken, Lady Elf. It is moonlight you see.”

Smiling, Tauriel kissed the crown of his head. “Open your eyes, Master Dwarf, and see for yourself.”

“I see only my fair Elf-maid,” he said, resting his chin upon her collarbone, “and her hair as red as a firemoon.”

“What’s a firemoon?” whispered Tilda.

“Hush,” Sigrid hissed. “Oh, bother. You’ve spoiled it now.”

Tauriel sat up, nearly rolling Kíli onto the ground. Her cheeks burned as she realized that Bard’s daughters had been listening.

“Eavesdropping, were we?” Fíli asked of the girls as he coming back to the fireside. He winked at Tauriel. “And here I thought you had turned to stone, like trolls.”

Tilda laughed as he swept her up over his shoulder and spun her around.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Master Kíli,” said Sigrid, hanging her head. “Lady Tauriel.”

“No harm done,” he said. “In fact, I should thank you, for it is a rare thing to see an Elven lady blush. Is it not a lovely sight?”

To Tauriel’s chagrin, Sigrid nodded, smiling.

“Enough,” she grumbled, shaking her head. “The pair of you.”

Having set Tilda back on her feet, Fíli set to gathering his pack. “Come, brother. We must away.”

Sobering, Kíli nodded and stooped to pick up the spear Tauriel had given him the night before. He made to pull her cloak from his shoulders, but she stopped him.

“Take it,” she said. “It will keep you warm on the lake. You can return it to me when next we meet.”

Kíli’s grin was broad, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “As you wish.” He wound the length of wool around himself again so that it did not drag upon the ground.

Tauriel helped the brothers drag the boat back to into the water. This time Fíli took the seat at the bow and Kíli sat at the stern.

“Be well,” she said, tracing his jaw with her knuckles. “ _Na l_ _û e-govaned v_ _în._ ” In Westron it meant, “Until we meet again.”

“Until then,” said Kíli as he pressed a kiss to her lips. “Remember our promise.”

Tauriel watched for a time as the boat slipped swiftly through the water, her fingers closing around the runestone.

“It will be all right, Lady Tauriel,” said Tilda, appearing at her side. “Father says that love doesn’t know distance.”

Taking the girl’s hand, Tauriel smiled down at her. “Your father is wise. Come, let us find him.”

<<< >>>

The gates of Erebor towered above as Kíli and Fíli approached. Having beached Tauriel’s boat, they had been walking for the better part of the morning. Kíli’s leg was stiff, but it did not pain him.

“Look, brother,” said Fíli, pointing to the ruins of what had once been the ramparts. “Could this be the work of the dragon?”

Kíli replied, “What else could have done such damage? Come on, Fíli! We must find Thorin.” Charging ahead, Kíli crossed the narrow bridge into Durin’s halls.

“Uncle Thorin!” he called, his voice echoing around the cavernous space. “Balin! Is there anyone there?”

“Bofur!” cried Fíli. “Dwalin! Anybody?”

They were greeted with silence. Kneeling with some difficulty, Kíli tore off a length of cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around the spear he had been using as a walking stick.

“Let’s have your flint, then,” he said to Fíli, who produced the two stones. Bringing them together in quick succession until they sparked, Kíli set the cloth alight. Holding it above his head, it cast a small halo of light into the shadows beyond the gate.

“Come on,” said Kíli. “They could be farther inside.” Fíli, nodding, drew his blade and followed his brother.

For a three quarters of an hour they delved deeper into Erebor, calling for their kin until their voices grew hoarse with exhaustion. Kíli was beginning to fear the worst when, at last, they heard something.

“Hello!” a deep voice called.

“Hello!” Kíli and Fíli replied. From the staircase below came the glowing of another torch and the thumping of boots upon stone. Dwalin appeared first, followed quickly by Bofur.

“By Mahal’s beard,” Dwalin boomed, grinning. “It is good to see you lads. Welcome to Erebor!”

“You’re in a fine mood, Mister Dwalin,” said Kíli, embracing him.

“Indeed, lad,” he replied. “For the Mountain belongs to the Dwarves again!”

Kíli resisted the urge to say something of the terrible ruin Smaug had wrought upon Lake Town, instead inquiring after his uncle and Bilbo.

“Our burglar is no worse for his meeting the dragon,” said Bofur.

“And what of Thorin?” asked Fíli.

Bofur rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, well, he’s been a mite preoccupied since we arrived, but he’s well.” Kíli frowned at that. There was more that Bofur was not telling them, and it worried him.

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you both,” said Dwalin, though his expression was hard. “Come, baths and dry clothes await you.”

“Since the furnaces were lit,” said Bofur, clapping Kíli on the back, “there’s steaming hot water to be had almost anywhere in the Mountain. Can you believe it?”

“I will when I see it,” Kíli replied, for not even in Ered Luin had he enjoyed such luxuries. He had always bathed in the cool streams that flowed down from the snowy tops of the mountains or in the copper tubs filled with lukewarm water that Men preferred.

As he followed Dwalin and Bofur, he gazed around him at the majesty of Erebor. Though the halls were dusty and cluttered after many years of disuse, they were still far grander than any Kíli had seen before. Fíli, who walked beside him, was similarly wonderstruck.

“Come on then, Kíli,” said Bofur, stopping before a thick wooden door with black iron hinges. “These are your chambers. Fíli’s are just the next door over.”

Leaving his brother to his own rooms, Kíli strode inside. Torches burned in the sconces along the walls of the large chamber. A four-poster bed stood against the far wall, across from a wide hearth. Flanking the bed were two archways, one leading to a balcony overlooking what Kíli assumed was once a bustling marketplace. The other led into a smaller, darker room where a massive tub sat. It was carved out of a single piece of quartz, but was deep enough for Kíli lay in up to his chin. Above it was a copper pipe, which released a stream of warm, clear water when Bofur pulled a silver chain.

Grinning, Kíli stuck his hand into the water. “Wonderful,” he sighed, making Bofur laugh.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. “Take all the time you need, lad. We’ll be just down the way when you’re finished.”

After he had gone, Kíli quickly stripped and eased himself into the bathwater. It was almost too hot, but after a many nights of sleeping on the cold ground, it was welcome. Easing the sodden bandage from his thigh, he dunked his head and began to wash his hair with the piece of soap that sat on the rim of the tub.

Once he had finished, he lay back and closed his eyes. He did not know how long he lay there, but he realized he had fallen asleep when he was startled awake by someone clearing his throat. He opened his eyes to see a familiar face.

“Bilbo,” said Kíli, sitting up. “Is something the matter?”

“I don’t mean to disturb your bath,” said the Hobbit, “but I’m afraid there might be. Have you seen Thorin yet?”

Kíli shook his head. “Dwalin sent us to bathe and dress first.”

“Ah,” said Bilbo, looking at his bare feet. “Well, ah…I believe Thorin is ill.”

“Ill? What do you mean? Was he wounded?”

“No,” said Bilbo. “Nothing like that. It’s just that…well, I think perhaps it is my fault. I found the stone he wanted and gave it to him. From the moment he took it, he’s been acting strangely. I’ve tried talking to him, but he won’t leave the treasure hall. He’s been down there all day and all night. He hasn’t sleep, and he’s barely eaten in two days. He’s not himself.”

Kíli looked down at the steaming water, saying, “I’ll speak with him. And whatever it is that ails him, Bilbo, I am certain you are not to blame.”

“Good,” said Bilbo. “I hope he hears you better than he has done me. I’ll go now.” Turning, he slipped out as quietly as he had come.

With a deep sigh, Kíli let his head fall back against the rim of the tub. Though neither Thorin nor Dís spoke often of their grandfather, Kíli knew the tales of his lust for gold and riches. Dwarves were all fond of precious metals and gems, but Thrór had craved them with an unmatched ferocity. It was said that he spent days on end walking in the treasure hall, carrying the Arkenstone in his hands. After the Heart of the Mountain had been unearthed, Thrór was never without it. All who gazed upon it were awed by its beauty, but many said that it had ensnared the king’s mind and brought the dragon down upon him. Kíli had never put much stock in such tales, but Bilbo was not the only one of their company who seemed unnerved by Thorin’s behavior.

Rising from the bath, Kíli stepped out onto the cool floor. Fresh clothes had been laid out for him. They were old, likely as old as Balin, but they were finely made, far finer than any he had worn before.

Once he had dressed, he went out the way he had come, following the sound of merrymaking. In a large hall at the end of the passageway, he found Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Óin, Glóin, Dori, Ori, Nori, Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, and Bilbo at table. Though the food was nothing more than the hard bread and dried meat they had brought with them, each had a tankard of honeyed mead in his hand.

“Come, young Kíli!” said Glóin, his cheeks red with drink. “Sit and celebrate among friends.”

“Where is Uncle Thorin?” Kíli asked his brother as Fíli slid him a tankard.

“He wished to be alone,” said Fíli, sobering. “I don’t like it any more than you, brother, but for now, eat and drink something. We will find Uncle soon enough.”

Reluctantly, Kíli sat on the bench between Fíli and Bilbo. Despite his worry, the mead was strong and soon enough he, too, was laughing and singing along with his kinsmen, the voices of the sons of Durin filling his halls once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/1/2015 - One of the readers on FF.net found a couple of goofy typos in this chapter, so I corrected them. If you see anything else weird, you all, let me know!


	11. Chapter 11

The wounds of Men were no different than those of the Elves. For two days Tauriel had been tending to the injured refugees from Lake Town. The medicines she had brought with her from the House of Healing had long since been exhausted, and she would have had nothing but hot water and bandages had it not been for the keen eyes of Sigrid and Tilda. Even in the wind-worn ruin of Dale they had found a number of useful herbs with which Tauriel could heal.

It had not been long after Kíli and Fíli had left them on that first morning that Bard and Bain had appeared among the survivors on the lakeshore. Though their clothes were singed and covered in soot, father and brother were drawn immediately into an embrace by the girls.

Tauriel was relieved to see them as well, having feared for a time that they had perished when the dragon fell into the lake.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Bard, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands, “for seeing my daughters safely here.”

Laying a hand upon her breast, Tauriel inclined her head. “It was my honor.”

“It’s Bard,” called many voices around them. “Bard the Dragon Slayer!”

Tauriel backed away as the Men of Lake Town began to encircle Bard, wishing to hear him speak. Though he seemed put off by the crowd at first, he soon found his voice.

“My friends,” he said. “Though we have lost our homes and some of us our families, we must not despair. Winter is upon us and we must look now to our own. Those who can stand, I ask you to tend to the wounded. Those who have strength left, follow me. We must salvage what we can and leave this place.”

“Where will we go?” asked a tearful woman.

Turning to the north, he replied, “We will find shelter in Dale.”

“Will you not go to the Mountain?” asked Tauriel as the Men dispersed. “Surely Thorin Oakenshield will offer you refuge.”

Bard’s brow knit. “Does he live?”

“I do not know,” said Tauriel, looking down. “But Kíli and Fíli have gone there to find out what they can. Even if their kin have fallen, they will not turn us away.”

“You may trust them,” said Bard, scowling, “but I do not. There is a curse upon that Mountain and all who dwell within it. I will not take my people there.”

And he had not. Instead, they were camped in the decrepit remains of Dale, the once great city of Men that lay in the shadow of Erebor. With many wounded and children in tow, it had taken them the better part of a day to travel from the lake to the city’s crumbling gates. What structures still stood offered little protection from the bitter winds. Tauriel did what she could to establish a makeshift infirmary, relying on Bain to gather anything that could be burned to sustain a fire. Still, in the night it had begun to snow, and by morning a handful of Men had frozen to death.

Gazing up at the Mountain, Tauriel wondered what Kíli and Fíli had discovered. Though they were never far from her thoughts, Tauriel knew that her healing skill was needed urgently in Dale. There were some who Tauriel knew would not last more than another day or two, but most were not gravely wounded and needed only to have their flesh cleaned and bandaged before they could go about their business. Sigrid and Tilda assisted her and she was glad to have their small, strong hands to put pressure on wounds or stitch up cuts.

Medicines aside, there was a shortage of nearly everything, from warm blankets and firewood to clean water and food. Bard had declared that the children were to receive the first shares of what supplies they had, but there was so little that even they complained of hunger and cold.

Though her people rarely hunted game, Tauriel shot a pair of rabbits that afternoon. She had given them to Sigrid to skin and roast. The scent of the cooking meat had drawn a few others to the infirmary, even if only to watch. The rabbits’ pelts now covered the feet of a wounded girl. Her face had brightened when Tauriel had laid them over her tattered boots.

“Would you like a leg, Lady Tauriel?” asked Sigrid.

She shook her head. “Give it to your sister.” Elves ate meat when they wished to, but Tauriel did not prefer it. She wished she had some bread, an apple, and cheese. Her stomach rumbled at the thought, but she paid it no mind, for in the distance she could hear the piercing call of horns.

Springing up onto what was once the roof of a cottage, she peered out toward the road. Half a league from Dale was a column of riders. At its head was Legolas, his bright head unmistakable. Behind him were eight horses, each with two guardsmen astride, for Thranduíl kept a small stable. Last came a wagon drawn by a team of elk. From where she stood, Tauriel could see that it was packed heavily with casks of water and wine, loaves of bread, and bushels of vegetables and fruit.

“What’s that, m’lady?” asked Tilda, her eyes wide with fright and the half-eaten leg of rabbit in her hand.

“It is nothing to fear,” said Tauriel. “It is a detachment of the guard of the Greenwood.”

“More Elves? Hurray!”

Smiling, Tauriel bid Bard’s daughter mind the sick as she made her way toward the gates. When she arrived, she found Bard already there, his hand clasping Legolas’s as he thanked him. The prince seemed unsure what to make of the unfamiliar gesture—which Tauriel had learned was common among Men—but he bore it patiently.

“My father, King Thranduíl, sends his deepest sympathies to you all,” said Legolas, loudly enough so that the small crowd around the wagon could hear him, “and hopes that you will accept our aid.”

“We will,” Bard replied, “with great thanks.”

Gesturing to the two guardsmen nearest him—they were Ingwion and Edrahil, Tauriel saw—Legolas bid them distribute the food.

“We did not know how many you were,” said Legolas. “We can bring more if there is need of it.”

“We are in your debt,” said Bard, bowing. Legolas nodded, and though Bard did not see it, his expression was hard. He knew, as Tauriel did, that Thranduíl always ensured that debts to him were paid in full.

Steeling herself, Tauriel stepped forward. “ _Hîr nîn_ Legolas.”

“Tauriel!” he exclaimed, drawing her into a brief embrace. She stood still, surprised and unsure what to do. When Legolas released her, he smiled.

“It gladdens my heart to find you alive and well, _mellon_ ,” he said. “When the dragon descended, I feared the worst. But I should not have troubled, I see, for here you are.”

Tauriel gaped at him, unable to speak. They had parted badly, and yet here he stood as though nothing had changed, that she had not disobeyed his father and spurned his affections.

“There is much to do,” Legolas said. “We will speak this evening.”

“Of course, _hîr nîn_ ,” Tauriel managed to say. Legolas raised a brow at her, but turned and gave orders to the guardsmen in hurried Sindarin.

“ _Nikerym_ ,” said Ingwion, who had appeared before her. In his arms he held a large parcel wrapped in plain cloth. “Míriel sent this. She would wish you to have it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Though you should not call me captain any longer. I am a healer only.” From the sharp scents alone she knew the parcel contained potent medicines for burns. She smiled.

Young Ingwion looked up at her with sadness. “I know, but it is more familiar to me than your name.”

She nodded. “You will grow accustomed to it in time. When you have finished here, come to the infirmary. I could use your skill.”

Despite his melancholy, Ingwion smiled wide. “I have been working hard to master what you taught me, _nik_ —Tauriel. I will come as soon as I am able.”

As he disappeared to help the other guardsmen, Tauriel returned to the infirmary for a time, working to distribute the medicines as they were needed. When Ingwion arrived to aid her, he brought word that Legolas wished to speak to her in the large tent the guard had erected near the center of town. Leaving the young Elf to the care of Sigrid and Tilda, Tauriel made her way down to the tent. Inside, it was warm and smelled of mulled wine.

“Here you are,” said Legolas, holding out a cup for her. Bard sat in a chair in the corner, already sipping a cup of steaming wine.

“We were speaking of the Dwarves in the Mountain,” Legolas said. “Bard said it was you who saw them last, having heard nothing from Erebor since two mornings past.”

“Though there are two Dwarves who were not among their company when Smaug woke,” said Tauriel. “Two brothers, Kíli and Fíli. They went to the Mountain to find their brethren. They live even if the others do not.”

Legolas nodded. “Then we must ride to Erebor and discover what has become of them.”

“Ride?” asked Bard, swallowing. “I, ah…I have never ridden a horse. We did not keep them in Lake Town.”

“Then you shall be entrusted to the care of Díhena,” said Legolas as he got to his feet. “He is very forgiving with novices.”

Tauriel stifled a laugh as Bard scowled. “You have nothing to fear from our horses,” she said, touching his shoulder. “They are sure of foot and good of heart. Díhena has taught many guardsmen to ride. He is a kind and patient horse.”

Though he did not look altogether convinced, Bard nodded and allowed Tauriel to lead him out of the tent. Legolas’s mount, a stallion called Celeg, was already outside, placidly cropping grass. From down the lane, a guardsman was walking with the reins of two other horses in each hand. Díhena was the larger of two, his coat and mane white as snow. The other was Amrûn, a mare with a chestnut coat nearly as red as Tauriel’s hair. Her long legs were marked with white stockings.

Smiling, Tauriel held out the flat of her hand for the horse to smell. “ _Gi suilanthon, bain Amrûn_.”

“What did you say to her?” asked Bard.

“I greeted her,” said Tauriel, “and called her beautiful, which she is.” Amrûn blinked at her and nuzzled her collarbone affectionately.

Warily, Bard took Díhena’s reins. The guardsman showed him how to place his left foot in the stirrup and lift himself up onto the gelding’s back.

“Like this,” said Tauriel. Gripping the reins and a handful of Amrûn’s mane in her left hand and gripping the cantle of the saddle with her right, she stepped into stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Settling her right foot into the stirrup as well, she smiled back at Bard. He hesitated only for a moment before managing to mount without too much trouble. Díhena stood patiently as Bard got himself settled.

Legolas showed him how to hold the reins. “Sink your weight into your heels,” he said, for he was an excellent rider. “Hold with your legs. Some may say that riding is simply sitting on a horse, but they are wrong. It takes strength and skill, both of which will come in time. Take hold of his mane if you tire, but sit up and remember to put your heels down.”

Bard nodded solemnly.

“We will guide you,” said Tauriel, hoping to reassure him.

Legolas sprang up onto Celeg’s back without using the stirrup, landing deftly in the saddle. “Are you ready?” he asked Bard.

“I suppose I am,” the Man replied. Tapping Díhena’s sides with his heels as he had been told, he moved the gelding forward. Legolas took the lead, Tauriel staying behind with Bard. They walked the horses until they were outside of the city and then they sped up into an easy trot. The pace jostled Bard quite a bit, so Tauriel relented and allowed Legolas to spur Celeg up to a canter and then a smooth gallop. The gentle Díhena made the transitions smoothly when Bard asked for them, though Tauriel knew that he only wished to keep up with his herdmates. Amrûn threw a happy buck as she surged into a gallop behind them and Tauriel grinned, having forgotten how much she loved to ride.

<<< >>>

It was eerily quiet the in treasure room, Kíli found. Surrounded only by mountains of gold and jewels, he felt oddly trapped and wished instead to be out under the sun.

“Uncle,” he said, drawing his attention back to the conversation at hand, “please. We will starve without aid.”

“Our kin will arrive soon enough,” Thorin snapped. “If your bellies are empty, go and hunt. Leave me in peace.”

Kíli and Fíli exchanged a dark look. Though they had had enough to eat the night before, their stores were already dwindling and it was unlike their uncle to dismiss that so easily.

“Thorin,” said Balin. “I implore you to reconsider—”

“Are you afraid?” Thorin growled, rounding on the old Dwarf. “Afraid of a little hunger after what we’ve suffered to reclaim Erebor?”

“Yes, I’m afraid,” said Balin. “I’m afraid _for you_. A sickness lies upon this treasure hoard. A sickness which drove your grandfather mad.”

“I am not my grandfather,” said Thorin.

“You’re not yourself!” Balin snapped. Kíli laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. He meant to reassure him, but also to warn him, for Thorin’s ire was not easily quelled once it had risen.

Fíli said, “Uncle, you haven’t left this room in two days. Come have something to eat, a mug of ale, and perhaps you’ll feel better.”

Thorin shrugged him off. “I have never felt so well.”

“Hey down there!” Dori called from the landing above. “There are riders approaching.”

“Beggars no doubt,” Thorin scoffed, wrapping his robes around his shoulders. “Send them away.”

“I’d advise against that,” said Balin. “What harm could there be in speaking with them?”

“You do it,” said Thorin, “if you are set upon it.”

“You are the King Under the Mountain, Uncle,” said Fíli. “It must be you.”

Thorin frowned, his brows furrowed deeply, but he nodded. “Let’s be quick about it, then.”

Kíli led the way up the stairs, grasping Dori’s shoulder as he reached the landing. “Can you see who it is?”

“The Elf prince,” he replied. “And the Man, Bard. And Lady Tauriel.”

Kíli could barely keep the grin from his face as he bounded along the passageways and up onto the battlements. It had been days since he had seen her and he missed her. On the bridge outside stood three horses, their riders waiting with the reins in their hands. Dori had spoken true. Tauriel was among them, astride a mount the color of sunset.

“Hail!” cried Bard, raising his hand.

“I know that voice,” growled Thorin, appearing behind Kíli. Going to the battlements, he looked over. “Bowman, what business have you here, at the gates of the King Under the Mountain?”

“Greetings, Thorin, son of Thrain,” said Bard. “We are glad to find you alive beyond hope.”

“‘Beyond hope?’” Thorin jeered. “You Men know little of Dwarves. I will not ask a third time: what is your business here?”

“I have come to seek fair settlement for the people of Lake Town,” said Bard. “Our homes were destroyed by Smaug and we seek only the share of the treasure that was promised us.”

“And what of the Elves you keep company with?” Thorin demanded. “What have they come to rob me of? The white gems, perhaps?”

“That treasure belongs to my father, King Thranduíl,” said the Elf prince Legolas. “Thrór gave his word that he would deliver the gems when the necklace for my mother was complete. He went back on his promise. Will you do the same, Oakenshield?”

“I know nothing of such an agreement,” Thorin said. “I owe you nothing, Elf.”

“Then you will leave us no choice but to take what is rightfully ours by force?” asked Legolas.

“Your threats do not sway me,” said Thorin, shaking his head.

“What of your conscience?” said Tauriel, breaking her silence. “Bard’s people offered you help and in return you brought upon them only ruin and death. My people ask only to recover what is rightfully theirs. Is that not a fair trade?”

“Your people, Elf-wench, imprisoned us and treated us like criminals,” Thorin snarled. “The Men of Lake Tower came to our aid only when promised a rich reward.”

“A bargain was struck,” said Bard.

“A bargain?” said Thorin. “What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom? You call that a fair trade? Tell me, Bard the Dragon Slayer, why should I honor such terms?”

“Because you gave us your word,” said Bard. “Does that mean nothing?”

“I will not stand by and allow you to impugn my honor, bowman,” spat Thorin. “Be gone from sight and take your Elven lapdogs with you!”

“Then you will have war?” asked Legolas.

“I will fight to protect what is mine if it comes to it,” said Thorin.

“So be it, then,” said Legolas. Wheeling his horse around, he set off at a gallop. Bard followed closely. Tauriel cast a long look at Kíli before turning and riding back toward Dale.

“What are you doing, Thorin?” cried Bilbo, loudly. “You cannot go to war!”

“This does not concern you,” said Thorin, not even looking at the Hobbit. Kili’s jaw dropped as he regarded his uncle. He had not known him to be so callous with anyone, Bilbo most especially.

“Excuse me,” Bilbo snapped, his cheeks coloring with anger, “but in case you haven’t noticed, there’s an army of Elves in that forest. Not to mention several hundred angry fishermen in town. We will, in fact, be out numbered.”

Thorin smiled knowingly, stroking his beard. “Not for much longer.”

Bilbo scowled, his hands on his hips. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Master Baggins,” said Thorin, “you, like that bowman, should never underestimate Dwarves.” With that, he swept off, undoubtedly to return to the treasure room. The others followed him more steadily until only Balin, Fíli, Bilbo, and Kíli remained.

“What does he mean?” asked Bilbo.

“Word has been sent to our kin in the Iron Hills,” said Balin. “Dain Ironfoot rides with an army to resupply the Mountain and reinforce our defenses.”

“We cannot go to war,” said Bilbo. “Not after all we’ve been through already.”

“He’s being stubborn,” said Fíli. “Is there nothing else we can say to him, Balin?”

The old Dwarf shook his head. “There was nothing I could have said to Thrór either. He’s made his choice.”

Fíli cursed and asked something more, but Kíli was no longer listening. His gaze was still trained on the dust Tauriel’s horse had kicked up. If it was truly coming to war, he could not stand against her on the field of battle. His uncle was being foolish. Even with the might of the Iron Hills to support them, in time they would need the Men and Elves as allies in trade, if nothing else. Erebor was rich in gems and gold, but they could not grow wheat for bread, fruit or vegetables for their table. An army’s supplies would only last for so long. Without trade partners, they would be doomed.

“Kíli could go to Tauriel,” said Fíli, drawing his brother’s attention back to their conversation.

“What did you say?” he asked, turning.

“That our food stores not last another three days,” said Fíli. “Even if we hunt. We must go to Dale for more. Tauriel is there. You could, perhaps, convince her to help us burgle some supplies.”

“I won’t make her do that,” said Kíli, shaking his head. “She has already forsaken her people and her homeland to help us. We cannot ask her to steal from the Men as well.”

“Why not trade for it?” asked Bilbo. “Take a chest of gold—a small one—and give it to Bard in exchange for some food.”

“It is not an altogether bad idea,” said Balin. “But Thorin must never know. Kíli, lad, will the Elf-maid help us to trade for supplies?”

“Perhaps,” he sighed. “Though I will not put her in danger to do it. I already owe her my life thrice over and we owe her our freedom. Still, I will ask her if we have no other choice.”

“It seems we do not,” said Fíli.

“Then I’ll go after dark,” Kíli said.

Balin shook his head. “No, Bilbo is the quickest and quietest of us. He will steal away and take the message to Lady Tauriel.”

“Me?” asked Bilbo. “Should Kíli not go? It is him that she l—”

“No,” said Balin. “It must be our burglar.”

Displeased, Kíli forced himself to nod. “Very well. Come, Bilbo, I will find you a cloak."

<<< >>>

Tauriel was sipping at the stew she had made for supper when Legolas appeared in the infirmary. Darkness was quickly descending and with it came flakes of snow spinning lazily to the ground.

“ _Hîr nîn_ ,” she said, rising and inclining her head with respect.

“It has been centuries since you have called me your lord,” he replied. “I cared little for it then and less now, _mellon_ Tauriel.”

“I did not know that you still considered me your friend, Legolas,” she said, looking down. “Not after what I said to you upon our last meeting.”

“I cannot say that my heart does not ache,” he said, “but it will ease with time. I have called you friend far longer than I have loved you and such a bond is not so easily severed.”

“But I also defied your father’s orders,” said Tauriel. “I abandoned my post.”

“You did,” said Legolas, “but I am not my father. He no longer looks beyond the Greenwood—Mirkwood, as it is called by Men—and I believe he is wrong to ignore the world outside of the forest. So do you. You left because you thought it to be right. I cannot fault you for that, much as I might have wished to…once.”

Squeezing his fingers, Tauriel said, “Thank you, _mellon nin_. Will you return to your father tonight?”

He nodded. “I must. We will need the day to prepare for the march. I had hoped that it would not come to this, that Thorin Oakenshield would see reason.”

“So had I,” said Tauriel sadly. “Give my regards to the other guardsmen. Tell them I am sorry for leaving them.”

“I will leave Ingwion with you,” he said. “He will be of help should you be called upon to heal those wounded in battle.” Drawing Tauriel into a quick embrace, he said his farewells and faded into the night.

Tauriel’s heart felt lighter knowing that her friend had not forsaken her after all. Her heart tightened, though, as she thought of Kíli. His expression had been hard as his uncle had spoken and had softened only for the briefest of moments as she met his gaze before riding away. There was pain in his eyes that she wished she could banish. She missed him greatly, she realized, so much that she felt his absence like an emptiness in her breast.

“Psst!”

Tauriel turned. In the shadows just beyond the tents was Bilbo Baggins. Gesturing, he called her over to him. Hurriedly, Tauriel laid down the cleaning cloth and went to him. Pulling him into her small tent, she knelt before him, her hands upon his shoulders.

“Bilbo!” she whispered. “It brings me joy to see that you’re well. What are you doing here?”

“I snuck away,” he replied, wringing his hands. “Only Balin, Fíli, and Kíli know I’ve come.”

“Is something the matter?” asked Tauriel.

“No,” said Bilbo. “Well, actually yes, yes there is. No matter what Thorin said this afternoon, the situation is quite dire. While there are riches enough, we’ve almost no food to speak of and if we don’t remedy that posthaste, I’m afraid we shall all starve.” As if to prove his point, Bilbo’s empty stomach groaned.

“Here,” said Tauriel, holding out a leaf-wrapped packet. “Eat this.”

Pausing only to sniff the small loaf in his hand, the Hobbit took a large bite out of the corner. “It’s good. What is it?”

“My people call it _lembas_ ,” said Tauriel, smiling. “It is Elven way bread. A single loaf will sustain a company for two days. You must take some back with you to the Mountain, though I’m certain that Thorin Oakenshield will know it and from whom it came.”

Taking a second bite, Bilbo shook his head. “Thorin is…unwell. He hardly eats. He’ll take a mug of ale now and again, but that’s all.”

Tauriel sighed. “Can he truly not be reasoned with? Prince Legolas has ridden back to Mirkwood to speak to his father. No doubt Thranduíl will raise a host to oppose Oakenshield, for if he will not willingly give my people what they are owed, then the king will take it by force.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can say to him,” said Bilbo. “He will not listen to anyone, even his own kin.” Reading her expression, he added, “But Kíli and the others are well enough. They worry about Thorin, but they are as hale and hardy as ever.”

Tauriel smiled. “Thank you, Bilbo. That gives me comfort.”

He nodded. “Kíli wished to come, but Balin insisted that I come in his place, for Hobbits are sure of foot and can creep quite silently when we mean to.”

“And you have done that,” said Tauriel. Her brows knit, she continued, “ _Lembas_ will do for you now, but you must have more substantial fare. I will take what I can from the storehouse, but I’m afraid it will not be much.”

“It should not have to last us for more than a few days,” said Bilbo. “Word has already been sent to the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. We will pay with gold if you’ll take it.”

Tauriel shook her head. “No, there is no need. And it truly will be war. I had hoped it would not come to this.”

“As had I,” said Bilbo.

Getting up, Tauriel gathered up a few more packets of _lembas_ and tucked them into a sack for Bilbo to carry.

“Tomorrow night when the moon is high, I will come to the Mountain with more provisions,” she said.

“You should not come to the gate,” said Bilbo. “There is another way inside. A secret door. We will have to bear the food up the mountainside, but your presence will not be noted by Dwarves, Elves, or Men.”

Tauriel nodded. “Very well then.” Leaning down his pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek. “Take care, brave Bilbo, and tell Kíli… Tell him that I have not forgotten our promise.”

With a swift nod, the Hobbit disappeared into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my two betas nookienostradamus and Tuonra, who keep my invariably goofy typos at bay!


	12. Chapter 12

By sunset the evening next, Tauriel had amassed a small cache of foodstuffs beneath a length of sacking in her tent. She had been careful to take only a few things at a time throughout the day. Her heart was heavy with guilt as she thought of the Men; they had little left after the destruction Smaug had wrought upon Lake Town and yet she was taking from them. Still, it was clear that the Dwarves’ situation was equally dire.

Bilbo Baggins had spoken of the illness that had befallen Thorin Oakenshield. _Dragon sickness_. The words passed darkly through Tauriel’s mind as she recalled what Nellas, the bowmaker of the Greenwood, had told her of the Arkenstone.

“None treasured it more than Thrór and those of his line,” he had said, “Just as it was said to cast a divine light upon the Dwarven king, it planted a seed of darkness in his heart. His love of riches became too fierce, and a sickness of the mind began to grow within him.”

Tauriel feared that if Oakenshield had fallen under the sway of the stone, as his forebears had, Kíli was in terrible danger. The thought pierced her with cold dread, and she wished only to be at his side to shield him from whatever evil lay upon the King’s Jewel.

As she had tended to the wounded that day, her thoughts had never strayed far from her Dwarven archer. Often she found herself gazing off toward the Mountain, Kíli’s runestone in her hand. It had not escaped the notice of Ingwion, who had stayed behind to help her after Legolas had gone.

“Are you unwell, Tauriel?” he had asked her that afternoon, touching her shoulder lightly.

“I am well,” she had replied. She spoke true, but Ingwion continued to look at her, his brows knit.

“You are troubled, then,” he said. “Is it the coming fight?”

“When have you known me to shrink from a battle?” Tauriel had asked in reply, one side of her mouth lifting in a sardonic smile. Ingwion looked duly abashed. Tauriel laid a hand on his shoulder to assure him that she had spoken in jest.

“It is not the fight that concerns me,” she said, “but its cause. There is no need for King Thranduíl to attack thirteen Dwarves with his full might. There must be another way…”

“Thorin Oakenshield would not parlay,” said Ingwion. “You were there, were you not?”

“It is true enough,” Tauriel sighed. “But there are others in his company who would.”

Ingwion’s brows rose. “I had heard that you became acquainted with them when they were held in the dungeons.”

“Did Legolas tell you that?” Tauriel asked. He nodded. “I am not surprised. He did not approve of my speaking with the Dwarves.”

“The king has decreed that the one who helped them to escape will be banished from the realm,” said Ingwion, looking at his feet.

“Has he?” said Tauriel. “Then he will be disappointed, as I am already forbidden to return to the Greenwood.”

Ingwion gaped at her, his eyes wide. “But…you were the captain of the guard, sworn to—”

“I know the oaths,” said Tauriel, holding up a hand. “And I stand by my choice to break them. It is done, Ingwion. Let it lie.” She expected him to fall back, to defer, but instead he lifted his head and looked her in the eye.

“I will not,” he said angrily. “You left us without a word to anyone. Did you care so little for your guardsmen that you could turn your back on us so easily?”

“Of course not,” said Tauriel, rounding on him. “It was far more difficult to leave the guard behind than to defy the king! I had intended to speak to you before I left the Greenwood, but the arrival of the Orcs prevented that. Legolas bid me return with him once they had crossed the border, but I could not let them escape so easily. I intended to go to Dol Guldur and put an end to the evil there, but one of the Dwarves—one I had befriended—he took an arrow of Morgul steel. I could not let him die.”

“You chose a Dwarf over your own people,” said Ingwion, his fair face set in a deep scowl. “Tauriel, how could you?”

“Have you not heard me?” she snapped, rounding on him. “I sought only to aid our people when the king would not. However, what I did for Kíli…I did for love.” Tauriel had scarcely admitted to herself how deeply she cared for him, and now she could not deny it.

Ingwion stared at her for a moment and then sighed. “I am sorry. I did not mean to speak so heatedly. I did not know that you had formed such a bond.” He smiled meekly. “It’s like a ballad.”

Tauriel managed to return his smile, though she shook her head. “I did not lose my heart the moment I saw him, like maids do in tales and songs, Ingwion.”

“No,” he said, impish, “but that is what will be sung…unless you tell me the truth of it.”

“You rogue,” Tauriel laughed. “All right. Come into the tent and I shall.”

<<< >>>

The moon was on the rise when Tauriel slipped out of Dale. She led Amrûn beside her, the mare’s saddlebags laden with vegetables, apples, bread, and even a few bottles of wine.

Tauriel had spent the better part of the evening telling Ingwion of how she had come to know Kíli and his companions. She had even spoken of Bilbo’s request, and, to her surprise, Ingwion had helped her to pack the saddle bags and bear them out to where the horses were tethered.

“I will see to the wounded while you are away,” he said as she tied the last of the bags to Amrûn’s saddle.

“I shall return before first light,” said Tauriel, patting the horse’s neck.

“You need not hasten back,” said Ingwion, a sly smile touching his lips.

She raised a brow, but said, “Thank you, Ingwion. You are a good friend.”

The young Elf embraced her then, catching her by surprise. “It is an honor be counted among your friends, Tauriel. Now go to your Dwarf.”

Smiling, she turned and set off down the road. It was a beautiful night to be out under the stars, and Tauriel was glad for the solitude as she walked beside Amrûn. The mare bore the weight of the supplies without trouble, her noble head held high. Her eyes were not so keen as Tauriel’s in the darkness, but she flicked her ears to and fro, listening.

They traveled north and west around the base of the Lonely Mountain, away from the gates of Durin and toward the hidden door that Bilbo had spoken of. It was at the base of the footpath that wound up the mountainside that she would meet him and his Dwarven conspirators.

It was Amrûn who found them first, her ears pricking forward at the sound of muted voices around the back side of a boulder. Tauriel could not make out what was said, but hooted the call of an owl.

“Tauriel?” said a familiar voice. Her heart leapt at the sound.

“I am here,” she replied, striding ahead.

Kíli appeared from behind the rock. The tattered clothes that he had worn when last Tauriel saw him were gone, replaced by a tunic of soft, gray wool embroidered at the collar and along the sleeves with the intricate knots the Dwarves favored. Black leather breeches were tucked into his polished boots. An ornate golden belt hung around his waist. His dark hair had been freshly combed and braided down back of his neck. A clasp of gold and set with lapis hung at the bottom of the plait. He was handsome in his finery, and Tauriel was quite ashamed of her road-worn clothes, filthy from many days of wear.

“I was right,” he said, his eyes flashing with mischief. “You are even more beautiful with the moonlight in your hair.”

“Kíli,” she said, reaching out for him. He went to her, wrapping his arms around her back. Framing his face with her hands, Tauriel kissed him. He pushed his fingers into her hair, gently tugging her down. They clung to each other, their shared breath forming a halo around them in the starlight.

“ _Ahem_.”

Looking up, Tauriel saw Bilbo, Balin, and Fíli standing a few paces away. They, too, were more finely dressed, and each of them was doing his best not to look her in the eye. Easing herself away from Kíli’s embrace, Tauriel greeted them.

“Come on, lads,” said Fíli, smirking. “Let’s get these supplies up to the others.” He looked pointedly at his brother as he walked passed him. “Kíli, I’ll take your share.” As Tauriel handed him the first of the packs, he winked at her.

“I hope it was not too much trouble for you to arrange this, my lady,” said Balin as he shouldered a particularly heavy bag. “You have our deepest gratitude.”

“It was no trouble,” said Tauriel, smiling. “Is the company well?”

Balin nodded. “They’ll do, though they’ll be mighty pleased when they see these fine red apples.”

“Thank you, Tauriel,” said Bilbo as he took the smallest of the packs. The clothes he wore were too big for him, she noted, but they were clean and very fine.

“You are most welcome, Master Baggins,” Tauriel replied. “You look very well.” The Hobbit gave her a small smile.

“Go on then,” said Kíli, shoving Fíli toward the narrow path that led up the mountainside. “I’ll bring the last of it.”

“Aye,” said Fíli, laughing. “We’ll be waiting for you, brother. Goodnight, Lady Tauriel. You have our thanks.”

She nodded, watching as they began their ascent. The path quickly wound away from her, though, and they were soon out of her sight.

“Tauriel,” said Kíli, taking her hand and drawing her to him again. With a sigh, she lowered her mouth to his. This kiss was deeper, making her heart pound in her ears until all she could hear was its beating. Despite the cool night, Kíli’s hands were warm upon hers.

“I have missed you,” he said against her mouth.

“And I you,” she replied, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

“I’ve thought of you day and night,” said Kíli, winding a lock of her hair around his finger. “I wondered if you were well in Dale. If, perhaps, you were wishing you could return to your home. Did you think of me, of my kiss, as I did of yours?”

Tauriel felt warmth spreading through her belly. “I did,” she said. “Even when my mind should have turned to other things. You have never been far from my thoughts, Kíli.”

“Nor have you left mine,” he said, pressing another kiss to her lips. “Come.” Leading her to an alcove out of the wind, he sat back against the stone and pulled her down beside him.

“Tell me of Erebor,” Tauriel said, her forehead pressed against Kíli’s.

“I will, but not yet.”

How long they held each other, their lips pressed tight together, Tauriel could not say, but when they did part, her breath was coming in short gasps and she could taste only him.

“You smell of fresh fallen leaves,” he said as he nuzzled her neck.

“I would rather I smelled of soap,” she laughed, “as you do. It has been too long since I’ve had a bath.”

Kíli brushed his lips along her ear. “You’re welcome to mine.”

“That’s good of you,” Tauriel teased, her fingers working their way into his braided hair.

He let his head fall back into her palm, closing his eyes. “I’m not always so generous, but for you, Lady Elf, I will be.”

Tauriel looked him over, smiling. She touched the gold belt at his waist. “Is the treasure as great as you thought it would be?”

“It is beyond anything I could have imagined,” Kíli replied. “There are rooms larger than the great hall of _Ered Luin_ , which could seat three hundred Dwarves at table, and each one of them is filled with heaps of gold and gems.” He plucked at the finely woven tunic he wore. “There are even stores of linens and bolts of cloth.”

Tauriel smiled, her hand on his chest. “You are garbed as a prince should be.”

“Fíli is Uncle Thorin’s heir,” said Kíli, tracing the length of her nose with his forefinger, “not I.”

“Your uncle,” said Tauriel, sobering somewhat. “He is…unwell?”

Kíli looked down, his brows knit. “He is not himself.”

“Bilbo told me as much. Is it the stone? The Heart of the Mountain?”

Kíli turned to her. “What do you know of the Arkenstone?”

“Only what is told in legends,” Tauriel said. “That it corrupts the hearts of Durin’s sons. Is that true?”

“I wish it was not,” he said, “but fear it may be.”

“Do you covet it yourself?”

Kíli shook his head. “I have scarcely seen it. Uncle keeps it close. It is striking to be sure, but I care little for treasure. Erebor is Uncle’s home, Balin’s home. I was born and reared in the Blue Mountains. I’d rather have my bow and good company than all the riches in the Mountain.”

Tauriel smiled. “It gladdens my heart to hear you say that. I worried that perhaps you, too, would succumb to whatever evil has possessed your uncle.”

“Neither Fíli nor I can understand what Uncle loves so dearly about the Arkenstone,” Kíli said, “but I have never known him to behave as he has in these few days. I am afraid for him.”

“Is there nothing that can be said deter him from war?” asked Tauriel.

Kíli sighed. “I have tried to speak with him, but to no avail.”

“If it comes to fighting,” said Tauriel, “you will stand with him?”

“He is my king,” Kíli replied. “I am sworn to stand between him and those who might do him harm. But beyond duty and beyond the glory of a hero’s death, he is my blood and I will lay down my life for the love I bear him.” He took Tauriel’s hand in his. “Will you fight with Thranduíl?”

She shook her head. “I cannot take up arms against you.”

Kíli pressed her knuckles to his lips. “What will you do, then?”

“Tend to the wounded,” she said, “though I hope there will be few.”

“As do I,” said Kíli. He was silent for a moment and then shook his head. “There is no reason to talk of this now. I would prefer to hear of more pleasant things. How are Bard and his children?”

“Well,” said Tauriel, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Bain spends most of his days with his father building shelters. Sigrid and Tilda are most often with Ingwion and I, making salves and wrapping wounds.”

“Ingwion,” Kíli mused. “That is a name I have not heard before. Is he one of your people?”

Tauriel nodded. “He is a guardsman and something of an apprentice of mine. He’s a fair hand at healing and has been of help to me.”

“What of your prince?” Kíli’s displeasure was clear. “He rode with you to speak with Uncle yesterday.”

Tauriel lifted a brow. “Jealous, Master Dwarf?”

“If it is him that you spend your days with, then yes, I cannot deny that I am,” said Kíli.

“He has returned to the Greenwood,” said Tauriel, lifting his chin until he met her eyes, “and I have returned to you.” From her pocket she drew the runestone.

“It is yours,” he said, closing her fingers tight around it. He kissed her then, their hands both clasped around the stone. They did not speak as they embraced, their quiet hums of contentment the only sound.

It was late, the moon high in the sky when at last Tauriel said, “I must return to Dale.”

“I know,” Kíli sighed, “but tell me that you will come again tomorrow. Meet me here, in the shadow of the Mountain.”

Tauriel brushed her lips across his brow. “I will.”

<<< >>>

Though she arrived back in Dale long before sunrise, Tauriel rested little that night. She took her time unsaddling Amrûn and rubbing her down. Once the mare was settled, she went to her tent. When she entered, she removed her boots and sat down, listening to Ingwion’s quiet breathing, but her thoughts were still with Kíli. She lay on her back, the runestone held over her heart, until the city began to stir.

There were bandages to change that morning, but Tauriel was happy to see that most of the serious wounds had healed. Her infirmary would soon be empty were it not for the impending battle.

 _Let it not come to that,_ she thought as she worked. _Let Thorin Oakenshield regain his senses._

It was midafternoon before the watchmen at the gates rang the bell. It was a warning that something had been sighted on the road. Three loud rings, fortunately, meant that it was friend rather than foe.

“The Elves have arrived,” said Bain as he slid to a stop by the infirmary’s fire pit. Tilda and Sigrid, who had been preparing the soup for the midday meal, looked immediately to Tauriel.

“Ingwion,” she called.

The young Elf put down the mortar and pestle he had been using to grind herbs and followed her to the square. At its center was Thranduil, astride his great saddle elk, and Legolas, on horseback, riding at the front of a company of Elven warriors.

Tauriel had not seen such a force assembled since her mother and father had marched to Mordor. The precision and uniformity with which the soldiers moved was unsettling. She preferred the freedom of the guard’s patrols to the warriors’ formations.

“Hail, Lord Thranduíl,” said Bard, appearing at the top of a flight of stairs. “We thank you for coming to our aid.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced,” said the Elvenking, barely looking at the Men that had gathered to see him. “I did not come on your behalf. I came to reclaim what is mine.”

Bard said, “Indeed, my lord, though I had expected a small sortie rather than an army. Do your gems merit so many?”

“The heirlooms of my people are not lightly forsaken,” said Thranduíl. “If we must go to war to take them back, we shall.”

“We are allies in this,” said Bard, cautious. “My people also have a claim upon the riches in the Mountain, but I had hoped that perhaps you could negotiate with the Dwarves—”

Thranduíl shook his head. “My son has already tried reasoning with Thorin Oakenshield. The Dwarf has chosen war over diplomacy. We are prepared to attack at dawn.”

“I would advise against that, my lord,” said a bent figure astride a travel-worn horse. He had the stature of a Man and wore ragged gray robes, his beard and white hair tangled from many windy hours in the saddle. He looked like a beggar, though he spoke with the clear, proud voice.

“Mithrandir,” said Thranduíl, his eyes narrowing. “What business does a wizard have here?”

“I should ask the same of you,” said the wizard, sliding down from his horse. He leaned upon a crooked staff topped with a milky white crystal. “It has been many years since you have ventured beyond the borders of your forest. Some said you never would again.”

Thranduíl glared, but spoke calmly: “I seek only what is owed to me.”

“You must set aside your petty grievances with the Dwarves,” the wizard said, looking between Bard and Thranduíl. “A greater war is coming. The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied and an army of Orcs marches toward us, a creature of great evil at its head.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Bard, whose grandfather had not been born when the War of the Last Alliance was fought.

“You cannot mean the Enemy, Gandalf,” said Legolas.

The wizard looked grim. “I mean just that.”

“Wizards,” Thranduíl sighed, dismounting. “They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance and breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes the storm is just a storm.”

“Not this time,” said Gandalf. “I have seen it with my own eyes. And the Orcs the Enemy commands are fighters. They have been bred for war. He has summoned his full strength.”

“Why show his hand now?” asked Thranduíl, his brows raised.

“Because we forced him,” Gandalf said gruffly. “We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland.” He pointed to the Mountain. “The Dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor. Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the Lonely Mountain. Not just for the treasure within but for where it lies, its strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands the Angmar in the north. If that foul kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lorien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall.”

Tauriel felt a cold chill snake down her spine.

“These Orc armies you speak of,” said Thranduíl. “Where are they?”

Gandalf hesitated, but then said, “At this very moment, I do not know.”

“Then we have nothing to fear from them,” said the Elvenking. “How long, after all, can thirteen Dwarves hold out against the might of my kingdom? Once this paltry conflict is done, we will have time enough to discover if what you say is true.”

“If you must be so stubborn,” said Gandalf, “at least send someone to scout for the Orcs.”

“I will go,” said Tauriel, stepping forward.

Thranduíl blinked slowly, his gaze turning to her. “Tauriel, you have proven yourself to be foolhardy and reckless. You will remain here where you can be watched.” To Gandalf, he said, “If anyone will go, it is my son.”

 Legolas inclined his head. “As you wish, Father.”

Sweeping his robes up over his arm, Thranduíl strode toward an empty space near the western edge of the square. He gave orders is rapid Sindarin for his soldiers to erect his tent and fetch him wine. With only a brief glance at Tauriel, Legolas followed him.

“You,” said Gandalf, turning to Bard. “Do you agree with this? Do you value gold so much that you would buy it with the blood of Dwarves?”

“It will not come to that,” said Bard. “This is a fight they cannot win.”

“That won’t stop them,” Tauriel said. “The Dwarves will not surrender. They will fight to the death to defend their own.”

“Then they are fools,” said Bard, his brow furrowed. “Excuse me, Lady Tauriel, Gandalf.” He strode away, leaving Tauriel and the wizard out under the midday sun.

“Do you truly believe the Enemy is responsible for the wickedness at Dol Guldur?” she asked.

“I am afraid so,” he said. Turning to her, he cocked a brow. “Tauriel is your name? It is not lightly that the Elvenking speaks of treachery. What is it that you did to displease him, my lady?”

“I released the Dwarves from his dungeons,” said Tauriel, lifting her head high. To her surprise, the wizard laughed.

“So I have you to thank,” he said. “You see, Thorin is not so different from Thranduíl. Both are willful to a fault, and I knew that if the Dwarves were captured, I would have had to bargain for their freedom. But you spared me that trouble.” Reaching into his robes he drew out a long pipe. “Tell me, my lady, why did you choose to let the Dwarves go free, hmm?”

Tauriel felt her cheeks getting hot, and she could not meet the wizard’s eyes. She had had many reasons, but she knew now that it had more to do with her heart than she had thought then.

“Interesting,” said Gandalf, puffing a perfect ring of smoke into the air. “You came to care for one of them. I would not have expected that. Who was it then?” His bushy, white brows rose high.

Sheepishly, Tauriel opened her hand to reveal the black runestone resting in her palm. She had hardly let go of it since the past night.

He smiled. “Ah, young Kíli. I suppose he told you of the meaning of those words.”

“ _Innikh dê_ ,” she said, her diction far better now than when she had first said it in the Mirkwood dungeons.

“Indeed,” said Gandalf. “It is well that a gift that was given to him in love—the love of a mother—has been passed now to his beloved.”

Tauriel looked down at it. “You are perceptive.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I have simply seen many things in my years, and I cannot mistake the radiance of new love. Though he has known no other, Kíli’s road has not been smooth and tranquil. Nor has yours, it seems. Be glad that you can find joy in each other.”

“Have you ever known such a thing to happen?” asked Tauriel. “For a Dwarf and an Elf to love one another?”

“What does that matter?” he replied.

Tauriel shrugged one shoulder. “Our peoples are about to go to war. And we are…different.”

“Love has survived war countless times before,” said Gandalf, “and it has overcome greater differences than those between you and young Kíli. Take heart, fair Tauriel, and you will find it steers you as surely as the bright North Star.” Smiling to himself, the wizard strode away.

“Tauriel,” said Ingwion, resting a hand on her shoulder, “you are needed at the infirmary.”

Nodding, she followed him away from the square.

When they arrived, though, it was not another wounded Man who sought her attention, but Tilda.

“Lady Tauriel,” the little girl said, taking her hand. “Come. We have a surprise for you.”

“Have you?” the Elf asked, allowing herself to be drawn along in the small girl’s wake. They stepped into her tent. Inside was Sigrid, pouring steaming hot water into a copper basin beside the brazier. A small table stood near it, a piece of soap nestled in a towel atop it.

“What is this?” said Tauriel.

“A bath!” Tilda replied. “Just like you said.”

Sigrid smiled at her younger sister and then at Tauriel. “You told us this morning how you longed for a hot bath,” she said. “I know it’s not much, but at least you can wash with warm water and real lavender soap. Come, smell it. It’s just lovely!”

 Breathing in the aroma, Tauriel sighed. “It is all wonderful.”

“Show her the secret now,” said Tilda, grinning.

“Have patience,” Sigrid sighed, going over to the chair, where a length of fabric lay. Lifting it, she held it up for Tauriel to see. It was a gown, simply made, but in a beautiful tawny brown, the bodice embroidered with gold thread. The sleeves were full and belled at the elbows.

“It belonged to one of the ladies in town,” said Sigrid. “She is nearly as tall as you are, though I fear it may be a little too short.”

“Should you not have it?” asked Tauriel.

The girl shook her head. “It does not suit me. You do not have to keep it if you do not care for it, but will you at least wear it while we launder your own clothes?”

Taking the soft fabric between her fingers, Tauriel nodded. “I would be glad to.”

Bard’s daughters left her then, telling her to leave her soiled clothing at the flap of the tent, where they could take them away without disturbing her bath. Tauriel thanked them once more and did as she was bid.

Bare, she shivered slightly, for the air inside the tent was warmer than that outside, but it was still too cool for her liking. Going to the basin, Tauriel stepped into the water. She smiled as it warmed her. Kneeling, she scooped up handfuls of water and let them fall over her head and shoulders. Taking the soap, she cleaned her body first and then her hair, watching as the water in the basin darkened.

When she was finished, she dried herself with the woolen towel, feeling better than she had in days. She slipped into the white linen chemise that had been laid out. Over it, she pulled the gown, taking her time with the laces of the bodice. The dress fit quite well, she found, but what mattered more was that it was clean.

Taking a bone comb from her pack, she worked the knots out of her hair before braiding it at the crown, as was her custom. As she placed the comb back into her pack, she caught sight of her mother’s coronet. She had tucked it into her pack in a hurry the night she had left the Greenwood and had thought of it little since. Taking it gently out, she looked over it.

The Feast of Starlight felt as though it had been months ago, not only a few nights. So much had happened since she had released the Dwarves. She felt as though she was no longer the same Elf that had once captained the guard. Gently, she laid the coronet back into her pack.

Donning her stocking and boots, she carried the basin of filthy water out behind the tent and emptied it. When she returned, Sigrid and Tilda were hanging her freshly washed clothes on a line above the brazier.

“You look beautiful,” said Tilda, hugging Tauriel around the waist.

“And I certainly smell better,” the Elf replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of the girl’s head.

“There is someone waiting to see you, my lady,” said Sigrid. “We told him he could come back when you were dressed, but he chose to wait without.”

Nodding, Tauriel went out into the late afternoon sunshine. Standing beside the fire pit was Nellas, the bowmaker of the Greenwood.

“Tauriel,” he said, turning at the sound of her footsteps. “My greetings to you.”                

Inclining her head, she acknowledged him. “Good evening, Nellas. I had not known you to venture far beyond the forest.”

“It has been many centuries since I have done so,” he replied, “but I had occasion in this case.” Reaching down beside him, he drew up a long, wrapped parcel. “This, after all, is for your Dwarven friend.”

Taking the parcel from him, Tauriel said, “You have my thanks. I had not thought I would ever see it.”

“Yet you do not look upon now?” he asked, lifting a brow.

Tauriel shook her head. “It belongs to Kíli. He will be the first to see it.”

Nellas smiled. “I have made many fine bows in my life, but few as grand as this one. Such a weapon deserves a name.”

“Have you chosen one?” asked Tauriel. “As its maker, it is your right.”

“I have,” said Nellas, gesturing for her to approach. Leaning close, he whispered in Tauriel’s ear. She repeated the words to him.

“I did not know you spoke the tongue of the Dwarves,” she said.

“I can remember a time,” said Nellas, “when our people feasted together with the Dwarves in their grand halls. I listened. Has your friend taught you the Khuzdul tongue?”

“Only a little,” said Tauriel. “I will ask him the meaning of this bow’s name.”

Smiling, Nellas nodded. “I hope that he approves. Farewell, Tauriel, and may we both live to see our peoples feasting together once more.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible [Irrel](http://irrel.tumblr.com/) did [this amazing drawing](http://irrel.tumblr.com/post/116981521497/i-made-this-drawing-for-gefionne-inspired-by-her) of Kilí and Tauriel from this chapter. I love it so much!

The cart Kíli pulled was laden with heavy stones from what was once the great gate of Erebor. Even in the chilly wind of early winter, sweat was rolling down his neck. He and his kin had been working since sunup to fortify the broken gate. Smaug had destroyed it when he had burst free of the Mountain, leaving the entrance to the kingdom exposed.

“I want this fortress made secure by sunset,” Thorin had said that morning as they broke their fast with the apples and cheese that Tauriel had brought. It had been a welcome respite from the gamey birds Kíli had been hunting to sustain them.

Thorin had eaten little, merely picking at what was on his plate and sipping from a cup of mead. Though Kíli’s concern for him was growing by the day, he was relieved that Thorin had not been curious about the sudden appearance of the supplies, as the others had been.

“How did you come by this?” Dwalin had asked before Thorin had arrived in the hall. He sniffed a piece of the Elven way bread with suspicion.

“We are not without friends in Dale,” Fíli had replied, glancing pointedly at his brother.

Dwalin raised his brows. “Kíli, lad, this is your doing?”

“It is Tauriel you must thank,” he said, “not I.”

“The Elf maid?” asked Bofur. “She is in Dale?”

Kíli nodded. “She was in Laketown when the dragon descended. She healed my wounds and gave me back my life.”

“And now we find ourselves in her debt once again,” said Glóin, picking up a piece of cheese wrapped in cloth. “How will we repay her, I do not know.”

“There’s gold enough in the Mountain,” Óin said gruffly.

“I doubt it’s riches that she wants,” Fíli had said, twisting the beads in his beard with a knowing smile. Kíli had glowered at him, though before he could speak, Thorin had swept into the hall. He was garbed in fine linens and a cloak of bearskin. The crown of Durin sat upon his brow.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Kíli had said, venturing a smile.

Thorin inclined his head in silent greeting as he took his seat at the head of the table. Balin, who sat at his right hand, set a plate of cheese and bread before him. Without so much as a glance down at the food, Thorin declared that they would work to barricade the gates that day.

“The Mountain was hard won,” he had said, “and I will not see it taken again.”

Kíli had exchanged a dark look with Balin. The older Dwarf had an air of weariness about him, his expression uneasy whenever he looked at Thorin.

“Over here, lad,” called Dwalin, drawing Kíli’s attention back to the gate. Ahead of him Nori, Dori, and Bifur were setting a massive stone into place along the broken ramparts. Pulling hard on the cart, Kíli drew it up next to them.

“Only a load or two more, I should think,” said Dori as he and Bifur lifted a stone from the cart and placed it atop the others they had stacked over the course of the day.

“Aye,” said Dwalin. He was in his shirtsleeves, his bald head coated with a thin layer of gray dust.

“Go down and tell Fíli and Ori that we’ve nearly enough, lad.”

Nodding, Kíli turned back toward the inner passages of the Mountain. The halls he walked were vast, but he and the others had had little time to explore beyond the treasure hoard and upper dwellings, where they had their quarters. Hastening down the makeshift ramp they had fashioned, Kíli made his way to the base of the gate, where Fíli, Ori, and Bofur were loading another cart with stones.

“Back already?” asked Bofur, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “They must be making headway up there.”

“They are,” said Kíli. “We need only one more load, perhaps two.”

“I’ll take this one with you,” said Fíli. “It’s far too heavy for you alone to pull.”

Kíli narrowed his eyes. “Saying I’m weak, brother?”

“Never,” Fíli laughed. “The sons of Dís are mighty.”

Taking up one side of the cart, Kíli grinned. Fíli smiled back at him as they pulled together. It was hard going, but they managed.

“Have you seen Uncle today?” asked Fíli.

Kíli shook his head. “He’s been in the throne room all day.”

Fíli scowled. “Staring up at that damned stone no doubt.”

“He’s placed it above the throne then?”

Thrór had kept the Arkenstone in a niche carved into the stone seat of the King Under the Mountain. Thorin, it seemed, had returned it to its place there.

“He has,” said Fíli. “And he has not been away from it since.”

Kíli sighed. Thorin’s sickness was only growing worse, and Kíli feared that if he was not delivered from it soon, it would overwhelm him. He wanted to take his uncle by the shoulders and shake him, to beg him to see reason, but he didn’t dare. It was not his place to challenge his king.

_Tauriel disobeyed the Elvenking_ , he thought.

They were not kin, however. She was not bound to him by blood, as Kíli was to Thorin. He had no choice but to stand with him.

Putting thoughts of his uncle aside, he asked Fíli, “Do you think the gate will hold come morning?”

His brother shrugged. “It will have to. Have you looked through Dori’s spyglass?”

“This morning,” Kíli said. Squinting one eye closed, he had gazed out over Dale. The day before only a few fires had been burning in the city, but that morning there were nearly fifty smoking on its outskirts. Elves in gold and silver armor milled among them, sharpening their blades and the tips of their arrows. It was no small force that had come from Mirkwood; it was an army prepared to lay siege.

“Even if the gate does hold,” said Kíli, “we cannot survive on what few supplies Tauriel can bring us. And she puts herself in peril by pilfering food. Our only hope is that Dáin Ironfoot arrives before too long.”

Fíli nodded. “He will come, but we must be prepared to hold the Mountain until he does. Will your Elf maid fight with her people?”

“She intends only to heal the wounded,” Kíli said.

“You must be glad for that,” said Fíli. “She will not have to face the danger of battle.”

“I’m relieved that she will be safe in Dale, though I cannot help but wish she were with us.”

Fíli’s brows knit. “But if we fall—”

“I know,” said Kíli. “She should not have to share our fate, if we are to die.”

“Is she to come to you again tonight?”

“She is. If this battle goes badly for us, I will not go to my grave without having said goodbye to her.” His heart clenched in his chest as he spoke, but he tried to ease the ache with thoughts of gentle kisses upon his lips and skin.

“And if we succeed,” said Fíli, “what then? Will you bring her here to live?”

Kíli had considered that, but he feared that Thorin would never allow it. And even if he did, perhaps Tauriel would not be content to reside in halls of stone when she had spent all the years of her life among the tall trees of Mirkwood.

She had talked of seeing more of the world. Kíli longed to do the same himself. He wanted to show her the peaks of the Blue Mountains and walk along the shores of the sea with her at his side. When he thought of long days of travel and sharing a bedroll beneath the stars, he always found himself smiling. Such a life would make him happier than all the riches in Erebor.

“She and I will decide together,” he said to Fíli. “After this is done.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Despite their numbers, King Thranduíl’s soldiers were strangely quiet. They kept to their own camps, never venturing into the heart of Dale where the Men had taken shelter. Tauriel had walked among the Elves only once, searching for the guardsmen whom she had led. She found none of them and, as she passed through the ranks, she could feel the eyes upon her and hear whispers in her wake. The king had made no secret of her exile, and there was unmistakable contempt on the faces of some of her people. Their cold looks stung like thorns.

The smiles and gratitude of the Men in the infirmary soothed her, however. That morning, she had changed the bandages that required it and handed out bowls of warm soup. She had spoken warmly to those she helped and they had replied in kind, telling her of their families and how they were faring. Their resilience was remarkable. Tauriel had great admiration for them. She had been glad for their conversation, but her mind was already wandering into the shadow of the Mountain where she would meet Kíli again that night.

Her heart lifted as she thought of him, of his warm mouth and his hands upon her, but envisioning him and his kin standing against the might of Thranduíl’s host set her stomach to roiling with fear. They were only thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit. They could not hold off a full siege of the Mountain for long. And to lose Kíli would be unbearable.

She knew that few of her people truly ever died of heartbreak when their lovers perished, but for the first time she understood how they could. A life without Kíli in it would be colorless, desolate. Closing her eyes, she prayed that he would be safe, that no harm would come to him in the battle.

“Tauriel,” said Ingwion. “Is this bark ground well enough for a poultice?”

She glanced down at the mortar that he held. It was filled with a mixture of water and the pulp of slippery elm bark, making a paste that would be applied to burns. She had used it often in the past days to treat those touched by Smaug’s flame.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Well done, Ingwion.”

He smiled and handed the mortar to Tilda. She scraped the poultice into a wooden bowl and set it aside. Since Ingwion had arrived, Bard’s youngest daughter had rarely left his side, her keen eyes studying the ingredients he mixed. She would make a fine healer one day.

Sigrid, too, had been of great help. At that moment, she was tending to a black iron pot over the fire. She stirred the boiling water with a long spoon, cleaning the scraps of cloth they had gathered to serve as bandages.

Tauriel was glad the girls would be by her side when the wounded were brought from the battlefield, but she wished she could spare them from the carnage of war. No children should have to watch their people die. Lives should not rest in the hands of such innocents.

She looked to Thranduíl’s pavilion, which stood on a rise just outside the city. Her expression darkened. He would attack the Lonely Mountain over a trifle: jewels as white and sparkling as starlight. Lovely though they might be, Tauriel could not imagine that the king did not already have riches enough satisfy him. Such a needless war stoked the fire of her anger and assuaged the guilt she bore for leaving her people. Thranduíl chose to do nothing when evil had begun to spill forth from Dol Guldur, and now he would fight the Dwarves only to please himself. He no longer deserved her loyalty.

Her thoughts turned to Mithrandir and the Orc army he had spoken of. If it was true that they were marching for Erebor, the Elves, Men, and Dwarves would be forced to fight on two fronts. Surely Kíli and his Company would be the first to fall, followed by the Men, and then the Elves. Cold dread washed over her. If they did not come to their senses soon, this war would doom them all.

 

<<< >>>

 

It was already full dark by the time Kíli arrived at the foot of the Mountain. The night was cloudless and the moon and stars lit the sky. It was cold enough to see his breath, so he had brought a pair of woolen blankets. Using the torch he had carried to light his way along the path, he laid a small fire. Settling down beside it, he drew out a short pipe to smoke while he waited.

He had spent the afternoon in his room honing the blade he had chosen from the armory. It was a fine sword, short but wickedly curved. He wasn’t like to use it, though, unless the Elves managed to scale the ramparts. Instead he would wield the bow he had found. It was longer than the one he had lost in Mirkwood and he did not care for that, but it would serve.

The armor he would don come the morrow was more ornate than any he had ever worn before. The plate was heavy and hindered his movement some, but it would offer better protection from the arrows of the Elves than the mail and boiled leather he was accustomed to.

His kinsmen had been subdued as they moved about the armory. They were ready for battle, but there was little joy to be had in it. They knew their odds. Only Thorin seemed unmindful of the heaviness the bore down upon them all. Even Bilbo, whose cheer had not been diminished even in the face of the perils they had seen on their journey from the Shire, was downcast. The only brightness Kíli could see was Tauriel and her flaming red hair. Even a passing thought of her buoyed his spirits.

Taking a puff from his pipe, he listened for the sound of hoofbeats in the distance. For a moment all was quiet, but then he heard the quiet snuffling of a horse’s breath. He grinned as he got to his feet.

“Kíli?” Tauriel said as she came into the firelight. She was leading the chestnut mare she had ridden the night before. She wore a simple dress and a hooded cloak hung over her shoulders.

“Here,” he replied, going to her. She dropped the horse’s reins as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into a tight embrace. His cheek against her breast, he breathed in her scent: herbs and soap.

“Have you been here long?” she asked. “I could not get away soon enough.”

“It makes no matter,” he replied, raising his hand to her cheek. “I would have waited all night.” Guiding her down, he kissed her. She made a soft, contented sound as she slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He brushed the tip of his tongue along her lower lip until she opened for him, deepening the kiss. They held each other until their lungs were burning for want of air.

“Come sit,” said Kíli when, at last, they stepped apart.

“Let me see to the horse,” Tauriel said. From the saddle she unlashed a long parcel wrapped in dark cloth. Carefully, she released the buckles on the bridle and slipped it over the mare’s head. Patting her neck, Tauriel turned her out to graze.

Kíli held out his hand as she came to him again. Entwining her fingers with his, he led her to fireside where he had laid out one of the blankets.

“Is all well in Dale?” he asked as they sat.

“As well as can be expected,” she said. “All are restless, Men and Elves alike. Few will sleep through the night.”

Kíli frowned. “Were you seen when you rode out?”

“Undoubtedly,” she said, “but I was not followed.”

“Good. I would not wish to put you in danger.”

She smiled, brushing the shadow of beard on his jaw with her thumb. “Whatever the danger, I will always come to you.”

Turning his head, Kíli pressed his lips to her palm. Her skin was warm and lightly calloused from years of wielding her bow and blades.

_Hundreds of years_ , he thought. She had already lived centuries longer than he ever would. And she would live many more after he was gone. The oldest Dwarves he knew had fewer than two hundred years. That was a mere moment for an Elf.

Time would wear upon him, he knew. His beard and hair would turn as white as Balin’s, his face would grow lined with age. Tauriel’s beauty, though, would remain unchanged. She would be as lovely on the last day he saw her as she had been on the first.

Kíli wondered if she would tire of him or if she would be willing to stand by him even as time wore his comeliness away. But perhaps the point was moot. Perhaps he would not live to see the end of the battle for the Mountain.

“What troubles you?” Tauriel asked, her brows drawing together.

“All that is to come,” he replied.

She cast her gaze down at their hands. “I do not know Thranduíl’s stratagem, only that the army will march at sunrise. I would tell you more if I could.”

“We will be upon the ramparts at first light,” said Kíli. “Uncle has ordered it.”

Tauriel closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’m afraid for you,” she said softly.

“I wish I could tell you not to fear, but I cannot.” He brushed his hand over her hair. “But know this, Dwarves are good fighters, hardy and strong. And we will not give our lives unless we must. We have good weapons at our sides. I have to trust that they will be enough.”

Tauriel sat up, pulling away. Kíli released her, though reluctantly.

“I have a gift for you,” she said, reaching for the wrapped parcel that had hung from her saddle.

“What is it?” he asked as she placed it in his lap.

“Look for yourself,” she replied, one side of her mouth turning up.

He raised a brow as he gently began to unwrap it. His eyes widened as he moved the cloth aside. Within it lay a stout recurve bow fashioned of dark rosewood. Its grip was carved to resemble the long beard of a wizened Dwarf lord, curling slightly at the bottom. Above the grip, the arrow rest was shaped as a Dwarf’s face, his mouth open in a fierce battle cry. The shaft of the arrow would lie upon its lower lip as Kíli aimed.

“I have never seen a finer bow,” he said as he ran his hands over the weapon.

“It has no equal,” said Tauriel. “It was made by the hand of most skilled bowmaker in the Greenwood. He called it _Khuzrul Aznâsh_.”

Kíli smiled. “ _Furious Flight_. A noble name.”

“It is,” she said. “May it serve you well.”

Laying the bow across his legs, Kíli took Tauriel’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “ _Khemnar amrâlimê_.”

Her brows knit. “I do not know what that means.”

“I think you do.” Taking her face between his hands, he drew her mouth down to his. “Thank you, my love.”

“ _Anthon ‘uren anden_ , Kíli,” she said. “I give you my heart.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Are we fools to love so quickly?”

“It is said among my people that love does not know time. It can grow steadily or strike with suddenness. But one is no less true than the other.”

“There is great wisdom among Elf-kind,” Kíli said. “I regret that I know so little of them.”

“I will tell you, if you wish to hear it,” said Tauriel. “But you must also tell me of your people. Of the Blue Mountains where you spent your youth.”

“Well,” he said, drawing a thick blanket over their legs to keep them warm, “then let us begin now. What would you know of the Dwarves?”

She smiled and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Everything.”

           

<<< >>>

 

“Though Dwarf maids rarely go to war, they learn how to wield weapons as well as any lad,” said Kíli. “My mother was a swordswoman, and a keen one, too.” He smiled slyly. “She bested Uncle Thorin once.”

“She must be formidable indeed,” Tauriel said. She was lying on her side across from Kíli, their hands clasped between them.

As they had conversed, the moon had risen to the highest point in the sky and had begun to descend once again. The time mattered little to her; she was lost in his tales and the deep resonance of his voice. She wished to commit the sound to her memory, for if they parted that night and did not meet again, it would be one of the few things she had of him.

Pushing that thought aside, she asked, “Did you mother teach you to fight?”

He nodded. “It was Father, though, who taught me to shoot. Fíli never took to it, but I did. As you well know.”

“So you have told me,” she said, teasing. “Though I have yet to see the true extent of your skill. As I recall, you challenged me to a contest to settle which of us is the better archer.”

“I did,” he said. “And I intend to best you when we hold it.”

Tauriel cocked a brow. “We shall see, Master Dwarf.”

Kíli scratched his chin, his short nails rasping against his beard. “Tell me, what shall my prize be if I win?”

“Would the right to boast of your victory not be enough to satisfy you?” she asked.

“It would please me, but a proper tournament has a prize.” He brushed his fingertips along the side of her face. “A kiss?”

“That is no great prize,” she said. “You may have one whenever you like.”

Kíli grinned. “And I’m glad for it. A bauble, then?”

“I have no need of jewels.”

“Perhaps that is true,” he said. “You require no ornaments to add to your beauty, but as my lady you should have them all the same.”

Happiness bloomed Tauriel’s breast at his words. “Do Dwarven women adorn themselves with many handsome treasures?”

“When it suits them,” said Kíli. “Which it often does.”

“They must be lovely in their finery,” she said. “I should very much like to see them.”

“You will. They will come to the Mountain.”

Tauriel smiled, though sorrowfully. She knew that none would come if Thorin’s Company fell. Still, she said, “Then I await that day eagerly.”

“As do I, my love,” he said. Moving closer, he kissed her.

Cupping the back of his head, she held him close as she opened her mouth beneath his. The heat that suffused her blood was familiar now, though it still stirred her just as deeply as it had the first time they had come together. Despite the chill of the night, her skin burned beneath her clothing. Her desire to rid herself of them only grew as Kíli grasped her waist and pulled her against him.

Moving his hand up her side to her shoulder, he guided her down onto her back. She went willingly, clutching at his back and pulling him across her chest. He made a quiet sound in his throat as slid his fingers into her hair. In the chill of the night, their shared breath formed a halo of mist around them.

Kíli pressed his lips to her jaw and then down her neck. She tipped to her head to the side to offer him more. Her eyes closed as he trailed kisses along her collarbone. Though they held each other tightly, she wished to be closer to him, to feel his skin beneath her fingers.

“Kíli,” she said softly.

“Hm?” he said against her ear.

“You told me once that few Dwarves marry. That there are too few maids.”

He pulled from her, lifting a brow. “That’s true enough. What of it?”

She frowned as she searched for the words. “Those who do not wed, do they…forsake lovemaking?”

He was surprised, she saw, but replied, “Some do, perhaps, though I cannot say that I have ever had cause to ask such a thing of my kinsmen.”

“Of course not,” Tauriel said, looking down.

Kíli touched her chin, tipping her face back up. “I can, however, speak for myself. I need not be wed to lie with my beloved…if she wishes it, of course.” His gaze was intent as he regarded her. “Is that your desire, Tauriel?”

She brushed a few strands of dark hair from his forehead. “It is. If it is also yours.”

“Yes,” he said. He kissed her, though only briefly before sitting up. She followed him, folding her legs beneath her.

Her heart began to beat deep and fast as Kíli unclasped the golden belt he wore and set it aside. He kept his eyes on her as he took hold of the hem of his tunic and lifted it over his head. Out of habit perhaps, he ran each of his hands through his hair to put it back in order. Tauriel watched the subtle movement of the muscles in his shoulders as he did. He was well made, his chest broad and covered in a thatch of dark hair. To keep her hands from trembling, she reached out and slid her fingers through it. It was soft and the skin beneath was pleasantly warm.

Kíli allowed her to explore him, watching her as she did. She moved slowly, her fingertips following the line of hair the trailed down beneath the laces of his breeches, though she did not yet venture further.

He reached out for her then, going to the laces of her bodice. She remained still as he loosened the knots. It was slow going, but as he released the last of them, the tawny gown fell open. With only the slightest hesitation, Kíli slid his hands under the wool, callouses rasping against the delicate fabric of the shift beneath.

Her breath caught as he traced the curve of her breast. He did not linger, though. Instead he moved his hands to her shoulders and gently he pushed the gown off. Tauriel slid her arms from the sleeves and let the dress fall behind her. She was left in only her shift. It was sheerer than she recalled when she had put it on that afternoon, and in the firelight she could see that it hid little of her form. She watched Kíli, hoping that what he saw was pleasing to him.

His eyes were dark as he looked her over, his hands still poised at her shoulders. Softly, he grazed his fingertips along her neck.

“You are lovelier than I could have dreamed,” he said.

Smiling gratefully, Tauriel slipped her feet from her stout boots, dropping them into the grass. Then she fisted her hands in the linen of her shift and lifted it away. The cool air felt good on her flushed skin.

Kíli knelt across from her, seemingly transfixed. Tauriel’s brow knit for moment, for it was not his gaze she wanted to feel upon her, but his hands. Taking both, she brought them to her breasts once more. She swallowed as he brushed his thumbs across the peaks.

She closed her eyes, her head falling back as he leaned in to kiss her neck. She laughed as he nipped lightly at her skin, but her mirth quickly faded as his mouth found her breast. She arched into him, her hands sliding into the hair at the back of his head. He held her to him, his hands at the small of her back.

Wanting to see all of him, she went for his laces. She fumbled with them for a moment until he moved her fingers away. Drawing back, he pulled his boots off and set them to the side. Slowly, he pushed his breeches over his hips and down his legs. He dropped them atop his boots.

Tauriel’s cheeks heated as she looked him over.

“Do I please you?” he asked, one side of his mouth curving up.

Laying a hand over his heart, she said, “Yes, Kíli. Now come here.” Putting her arms around his neck, she drew him down to her.

 

<<< >>>

 

“Are you well?” Kíli asked. He could feel the quick beats of her heart as he lay beside her. They were still bare, though he had pulled a blanket up over them.

“Perfectly well, yes,” Tauriel replied.

He nuzzled her neck, smiling to himself. “Good.”

She stroked his arm. “Would that we could stay like this.”

“I know,” he sighed.

The moon was swiftly sinking toward the horizon, marking the end of the night. Soon his kinsmen would be rising and going to the armory. It was not long before Tauriel would have to return to Dale. Kíli wanted desperately to cling to the peacefulness that had washed over him in the wake of their lovemaking, but he knew it could not be. Taking a last breath of her scent, he pulled away and reached for his breeches.

When they had dressed, Tauriel went to the edge of the clearing and whistled for her horse. The mare came trotting up. Tauriel rubbed her ears and spoke a few words in the Elvish tongue as she bridled her.

Kíli watched his Elf maid, memorizing the lines of her face, the contours of her form. His chest ached as he prepared to bid her farewell, perhaps for the last time. He took comfort, though, in knowing that she would be away from the battle. As long as she lived, he would be content to die. It would be an honorable death, and she would remember him.

“It is time,” she said, turning.

He went to her and pulled her to him.

She pressed her lips to the crown of his head. “Return to me, Kíli.”

“I can promise you only that I will try,” he said. “Goodnight, my love.” He released her and watched her go.


End file.
